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Title: Needlework As Art

Author: Viscountess Marianne Margaret Compton Cust Alford

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Language: English

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NEEDLEWORK AS ART

BY

LADY M. ALFORD

London:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, AND RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
1886.

[All rights reserved.]

——
LONDON:

PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LIMITED,
ST. JOHN’S SQUARE.

See larger image

TELEMACHUS PENELOPE

DEDICATED BY PERMISSION

TO

THE QUEEN.

TO

THE QUEEN.
Your Majesty’s most gracious
acceptance of the Dedication of my
book on “Needlework as Art” casts a
light upon the subject that shows its
worthiness, and my inability to do it
justice. Still, I hope I may fill a gap in
the artistic literature of our day, and I
venture to lay my work at your
Majesty’s feet with loyal devotion.
MARIAN M. ALFORD.

PREFACE.
In the Preface to the “Handbook of Art Needlework,” which I edited for the
Royal School at South Kensington in 1880, I undertook to write a second
part, to be devoted to design, colour, and the common-sense modes of
treating decorative art, as applied especially to embroidered hangings,
furniture, dress, and the smaller objects of luxury.
Circumstances have, since then, obliged me to reconsider this intention; and
I have found it more practicable to cast the information which I have
collected from Eastern and Western sources into the form of a separate
work, which in no way supersedes or interferes with the technical
instruction supposed to be conveyed in a handbook. I have found so much
amusement in learning for myself the history of the art of embroidery, and
in tracing the beginnings and the interchanges of national schools, that I
cannot but hope that I may excite a similar interest in some of my readers,
and so induce those who are capable, to help and lift it to a higher place
than it has been allowed in these latter days to occupy. If I have given too
important a position to the art of needlework, I would observe that while I
have been writing, decorative embroidery has come to the front, and is at
this moment one of the hobbies of the day; and I would point out that it
contains in itself all the necessary elements of art; it may exercise the
imagination and the fancy; it needs education in form, colour, and
composition, as well as the craft of a practised hand, to express its language
and perfect its beauty.
I confess that when I undertook this task, I did not anticipate the time I have
had to spend in collecting and epitomizing the many notices to be found in
German, French, and English authors, on what has been considered among
us, at least in this century, as merely a secondary art, and therefore, as such,
of little importance. Cursory notices of needlework are scattered through
almost every book on art; and under the head of textiles it is usual to find
embroidery acknowledged as being worthy of notice, though not to be
named in company with sculpture, architecture, or painting, however

beautifully or thoughtfully its works may be carried out. I have tried to
show that it deserves higher estimation.
My first intention was simply to consider Style, good or bad, as it
influences our embroidery of to-day, and to find some rules by which to
guide that of the future in its next phase. But when we search into the
fluctuations of style, and their causes, we find they have an historical
succession, and that we must begin at the beginning and trace them through
the life of mankind.
This led me to attempt a sketch of consecutive styles, their overlap and
variations.
I then found that Design, Patterns, Stitches, Materials, each require a
separate study.
Colour, as applied to dyes, claims to be regarded as differing from
pigments on the painter’s palette.
Hangings, Dress, and Ecclesiastical Embroideries each require different
rules, and the study of the best examples of past centuries. Finally, it seems
natural to dwell on our own proficiency in decorative work. English
Embroidery has always excelled; and, as we have again returned to this
occupation, it is worth while to recollect what we have done of old.
In writing chapters on these subjects, I have found it most convenient to
separate the historical and æsthetic questions from the technical rules, and
the instruction which naturally belongs to a handbook, of which the purpose
should be to teach the easiest and most orthodox manner of executing the
simplest, and elaborating the finest works. Such questions ought not to be
overlaid with archæological inquiries, or with the information which only
profits the designer; though of course it is best that the knowledge of design
should be part of the education of the craft.
Perhaps I may be found to have written a book too shallow for the learned,
too deep for the frivolous, too technical for the general public, and too
diffuse for the specialist of the craft.[1]
I must deprecate these criticisms by saying that I have written it for the
benefit of those who know nothing of the art, and are too much engaged to

seek information here and there; who yet, being women, have to select and
to execute ornamental needlework; or, being artists, are vexed at the
incongruities and want of intention in the decorations in daily domestic use;
I have also sought to help the designer, that he or she may know something
of the history of patterns and stitches.
If my readers should be aware of repetitions, they must forgive them;
remembering that the same idea has to be looked at sometimes from a
different point of view, according to the use to which it is to be fitted. The
same material may be employed for wall-hangings and dress, and then the
principles which have been formulated have to be varied. I do not shrink
from repetitions if they make my meaning clear, remembering the Duke of
Wellington’s direction to his private secretary, “Never mind repetitions; and
dot your i’s.”
Portions of these chapters have been already published in No. 49 of the
Nineteenth Century,[2] in 1881; and more was delivered in three
unpublished lectures the same year.
I have acknowledged and noted on each page my authorities for the facts I
have quoted. The illustrations that are not original, have been copied from
other works by permission of authors and publishers. To all of these I wish
to express my obligations and thanks, especially to Mr. Villiers Stuart, Dr.
Anderson, Sir G. Birdwood, and Sir H. Layard, for their courtesy in
allowing me the use of their plates. To my old and valued friend, Mr.
Newton, I wish to express my gratitude for his unstinted gifts of time and
trouble, bestowed in criticizing and correcting my book, encouraging me to
give it to the public, and making it more worthy of publication.
I have largely quoted Charles Blanc (“Ornament in Dress,” English
translation), Von Bock (“Liturgische Gewänder”), Dr. Rock (“The Church
of our Fathers” and “Introduction to Textiles”), Semper (“Der Stil”), Yates
(“Textrinum Antiquorum”), and Yule (“Marco Polo”), besides many others.
But these authorities often differ, and, after weighing their arguments, I
have ventured to select for my use the facts and theories which accord with
my own views. Facts are often so interdependent and closely linked, that it
requires great care to distinguish where they have been shaped or coloured
(however unintentionally) to fit each other or the writer’s preconceived

ideas. Certain it is that facts are but useless heaps till the thread of a theory
is found on which to hang them. This process, like that of stringing pearls,
has to be often repeated, till each occupies its right place. Only those who
have adopted and cherished a theory can appreciate the pain of cutting the
thread, to displace what appeared to be a pearl, but which, from its false
position as to date or place, or its doubtful origin, has proved only an empty
manufactured glass bead of error.
This has happened to me more than once; and since I read my lectures I
have had to change my opinions in several instances. If, therefore, any of
my readers should observe such changes, I hope they will give me credit for
trying to convey now what appears to me on each subject a correct
impression.

FOOTNOTES:
[1] Besides the art, I have sought to give something of the archæology of
needlework. Now the qualifications for being a teacher on such subjects are
rarely to be met with, all combined. Mr. Newton, in his “Essays on Art and
Archæology,” p. 37, says that “the archæologist should combine with the
æsthetic culture of the artist, and the trained judgment of the historian and the
philologist, that critical acumen, required for classification and interpretation;
nor should that habitual suspicion which must ever attend the scrutiny and
precede the warranty of evidence, give too sceptical a bias to his mind.” Such
authorities have been interrogated on each part of my subject.
[2] Quoted by permission of the Editor.

CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION. 1

CHAPTER I.—STYLE.
Definition of style—Development of style—Primitive—Archaic—
Egyptian—Babylonian—Phœnician influences on early Greek
style—Decoration of hangings of the Tabernacle in the
wilderness—Aryan ideas—The Code of Manu—Indian art—
Celtic style—Greek art in dress and embroideries—Homer’s
descriptions of embroideries—Pallas Athene—Shield of
Achilles—Roman art—Byzantine art—Art of Central Asia—
Its arrival in Europe—Art of China, Japan, and Java—
Christian art—Scandinavian art—The Dark Ages—Sicilian
textile art—Renaissance—Arabesque—Grotesque—Spanish
Plâteresque—Style of Queen Anne and the Chippendales—
Louis XV. style—Classical revival—Young England’s style—
Nineteenth century style 14

CHAPTER II.—DESIGN.
Artist and artisan—Prehistoric design—Naturalistic design—
Egyptian immutability—Slow evolution of design—Greek
perfection—Necessity of following rules—M. Blanc’s laws of
ornamentation—Laws of composition—Repetition—
Alternation—Symmetry—Progression—Confusion—Designs
for hangings and dress materials—Floral design—Design for
carpets—The conventional—First principles 54

CHAPTER III.—PATTERNS.
Ancestry of patterns—Classification—Their historical value— 82
Primitive patterns—The wave—Tartan—Prehistoric African
patterns—The naturalistic—Flowers—Shells—Indian forms of

naturalistic patterns—Egyptian—The lotus—Sunflower—
Celtic Zoomorphic patterns—The human figure on Greek
textiles—Animal forms in Oriental patterns—Symbolical and
conventional patterns—The wave patterns—The palm leaf—
The cone—Gothic—Arab—Moresque—The Sacred Hom—
Egg and tongue—The cross—Swastika—Fylfote—
Gammadion—The crenelated pattern—The Ninevite daisy—
Emblematic patterns—Bestiaria—Volucraria—Lapidaria—
Byzantine patterns—Gothic—Renaissance—The cloud pattern
—The fundata—Italian—French patterns—Radiated patterns
—The shell—Patterns by repetition—Balcony pattern—
Chinese wicker-work—Survival of a pattern—Opus
Alexandrinum—Quilting patterns

CHAPTER IV.—MATERIALS.
Raw materials—Revelations of the microscope—Hemp—Jute— 118
Honduras grass—Spartum—Pinna silk—Hair—Leather—
Feathers—Asbestos—Coral—Pearls—Beads—Wool—
Classical notices of wool—Careful improvement of wool by
the ancients—Tanaquil—Homeric woollen carpets—Crimson
textile fragments—Scandinavian woollen garments—Qualities
of wool—English wool—Goats’ hair—Flax—Lake cities—
Byssus—Fine linen of Egypt—The Atrebates—Embroidery on
linen—Cotton—Indian origin—Carbasa—Buckram—Cotton
fabrics—Gold—Silver—Gold brocades—Jewish—Indian—
Chinese—Dress of Darius—Attalus—Attalic textiles—
Agrippina’s golden garments—St. Cecilia’s mantle—Roman
tombs—Gold wire—Anglo-Saxon tomb—Childeric’s tomb—
Proba’s gold thread—Golden wrappings from tombs of Henry
I. and Henry III.—Gold embroideries and jewellers’ work of
Middle Ages—Spangles—Enamels—Purl—Modern schools
of gold embroidery—Silk—Pamphile of Cos—Early
specimens of silk stuffs—Chinese silks—The Seres—Mela—
Seneca—M. Terrien de la Couperie—Empress Si-ling-chi—
Princess of Khotan—Euripides—Lucan—Pliny—Silk in Rome
—Ælius Lampridius—Flavius Vopiscus—Tailor’s bill—
Justinian’s codex—Imperial monopoly—Paul the Silentiary—

Bede—King John’s apparition—Greek and Sicilian
manufactories of silk—Distinctive marks of different periods
—Lyons—Spain—Italy—Flemish towns—Marco Polo—Satin
—Welsh poem, “Lady of the Fountain”—Chaucer—Velvet—
Transference of work to new materials

CHAPTER V.—COLOUR.
Harmony and dissonance—Names of tints—Authorities for theories
—Art of colouring—Expression of colouring—Purple—Red—
Crimson—Blue—Yellow—Pliny—Renouf—Chinese colours
—Indian dyes—Persian colours—Dyes of the Gauls—Romans
—Scotch—Scales of colour—MM. Charton and Chevreul on
tones of colour—Gas colours 175

CHAPTER VI.—STITCHES.
Stitches—Part I.: The needle—Gammer Gurton’s needle—Art of 194
needlework—Lists of stitches—Part II.: Plain work—The
seam—Mrs. Floyer—White embroidery—Nuns’ work—Greek
—German —Spanish—Italian white work—Semper’s rules for
white work—Part III.: Opus Phrygium—Gold embroideries—
Part IV.: Opus pulvinarium—Cushion stitches—Mosaic
stitches—Traditional decorations from Chaldea and Assyria—
German and Italian pattern-books—Part V.: Opus plumarium
—The Plumarii—Feather-work of India—Islands of the
Pacific—African work—Mexican and Peruvian—Cluny
triptych—Mitre of St. Charles Borromeo—Essay by Denis—
Chinese and Japanese feather-stitches—Part VI.: Opus
consutum or cut work—Patchwork—Egyptian and Greek
examples—Irish cut work—Chaucer—Francis I.’s hangings at
Cluny—Lord Beauchamp’s curtains—Spanish examples—
Remarks—Art of application—Part VII.: Lace—Opus
filatorium—Mrs. Palliser—M. Blanc—Guipure—Sir Gardiner
Wilkinson—Netted lace—Homer—Solomon’s Temple—
Bobbin laces—Yak—Coloured laces—Venetian sumptuary
laws—Golden laces—Point d’Alençon—Mr. A. Cole’s
lectures—M. Urbani de Gheltof on Venice laces—Lace

stitches—Revival of lace school at Burano—English laces—
Part VIII.: Tapestry—Opus pectineum—Modes of weaving
tapestry—Its great antiquity—Egyptian looms—Albert Castel
on tapestries—Homeric picture-weaving—Arachne—A
paraphrase by Lord Houghton—Nomenticum—Sidonius
Apollinaris—Saracenic weaving—Arras—Brussels—Italian
tapestries from Florence, Milan, and Mantua—French
tapestries—Cluny Museum collection—Gobelins—Beauvais
—English tapestry—Comnenus—Matthew Paris—Early trade
with Arras—Coventry tapestries—Chaucer—Tapestry “of
verd”—Hatfield tapestries—Armada tapestries—Sir F. Crane
—Mortlake manufactory—Francis Cleyne—Raphael cartoons
—Percy tapestry from Lambeth

CHAPTER VII.—HANGINGS.
Classical hangings—Babylonian and Persian—Semper’s theory—
Sanctuary in the wilderness—St. Peter’s at Rome—Abulfeda
—Akbar’s tent—Nadir Shah’s tent—Tent of Khan of Persia—
Tents of Alexander the Great at Alexandria—Roman hangings
—Funeral pyres—Kosroes’ tent—Semper’s rules for hanging
decorations—Ancient carpets—English and French hangings
—Rules for designs of hangings 260

CHAPTER VIII.—FURNITURE.
Penelope’s couch—Chaldean furnished house—The bed—Earl of
Leicester’s inventories—State apartment of Alessandri Palace
—Indian embroideries for furniture—The sofa and chair—The
footstool—Furniture stitches—The table cover—The screen—
Book covers—Morris on furniture 280

CHAPTER IX.—DRESS.
Art of dress—Ancient splendour—Persian, Greek, and Roman—
Indian—Homeric—Early Christian—Charlemagne’s mantle
and robe—Objects of dress—Embroidered garments 294

CHAPTER X.—ECCLESIASTICAL EMBROIDERY.
Christian art—Dark ages—Greek and Roman ecclesiastical dress—
Northern influence—Continuity of ecclesiastical art—
Authorities—Anglo-Saxon orthodox colours—Veils of the
Temple—Hangings in Pagan temples and Christian churches—
Russian use of veils—Art in the early Church—Rare examples
—Destruction by the iconoclasts—Early embroiderers—
Empress Helena—Bertha, mother of Charlemagne—His
dalmatic—Pluvial of St. Silvester—Pluvial of museum at
Bologna—Daroca cope—Cope of Boniface VIII.—Style of the
twelfth century—Mantle of St. Stephen of Hungary—
Kunigunda’s work for Henry II.—The Romanesque—
Movement perfecting Gothic art, thirteenth century—Opus
Anglicanum—Syon cope—Embroidery on the stamp—
Pictures in flat stitches—Flemish work—Renaissance—Work
of some royal ladies—French—Spanish—Sicilian and
Neapolitan—German work—Sacred symbolism—Melito’s
“The Key”—Mystical colours—Prehistoric cross—Many
forms of the cross—The roës—The chrysoclavus—Modern
decoration—Principles and motives for church embroideries—
The altar-cloth—The reredos—The pulpit and reading-desk—
The ancient Paschal—The banner of St. Cuthbert—The fringe
—Lay heraldry of the Church—South Kensington Museum 303

CHAPTER XI.—ENGLISH EMBROIDERY.
First glimpse of art in England—Dyeing and weaving in Britain in 356
early times—Cæsar’s invasion—Roman civilization—Anglo-
Saxon times and art—Adhelme’s poem—Icelandic Sagas—
Saga or story of Thorgunna—English work in the eighth
century—The Benedictines—Durham embroideries—Aelfled
—St. Dunstan—Queen Emma’s work—William of Poitou—
The Bayeux tapestry—Abbess of Markgate—Gifts to Pope
Adrian IV.—Robes of Thomas à Becket at Sens—Innocent III.
—English pre-eminence in needlework from the Conquest to
the Reformation—John Garland on hand-looms—Blode-

bendes and lacs d’amour—Opus Anglicanum—English
peculiarities in ecclesiastical design—Penalties against luxury
in dress—Protection the bane of art—Dunstable pall—
Stoneyhurst cope—Destruction of fine works at the
Reformation—Much on the Continent, much collected in our
old Catholic houses—Field of the Cloth of Gold—Mary
Tudor’s Spanish stitches—Queen Elizabeth’s embroideries—
Institution of Embroiderers’ Company—East India Company
—Oriental taste discouraged on Protectionist grounds—Decay
of the art in England—Style of James I.—Dutch style—
Cushion stitches—Miss Linwood—Miss Moritt—Mrs. Delany
—Mrs. Pawsey—Postscript—Revival of the art of needlework
—“Royal School of Art Needlework”

Appendix
I. Charles T. Newton on Votive Dresses 400
II. The Moritzburg Feather Hangings 401
III. The Story of Arachne, translated by Earl Cowper 402
IV. Charlemagne’s Dalmatic, by Lord Lindsay 405
V. Notices of various Mediæval Embroideries by the Hon. and
Rev. W. Ignatius Clifford 407
VI. Syon Cope, Rock’s Introduction, “Textile Fabrics” 408
VII. Assyrian Fringes 412
VIII. Hrothgar’s House Furniture: Poem of Beowulf 412
IX. Thorgunna, by Sir G. Dasent 413
X. Pedigree of Aelswith 414
XI. Statutes at Large 414

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
CUTS.

Fig. Page.
1 20 Egyptian corselet. Wilkinson’s “Ancient Egyptians,” p.
332.
2 25 Tabernacle of Balawat. Temp. Shalmaneser. British
Museum.
3 30 Zoomorphic Celtic pattern.
4 32 Pallas Athene attired in the sacred peplos. Panathenaic
vase, British Museum.
5 62 Wave pattern.
6 63 Key pattern.
7 63 Metopes and triglyphs.
8 73 Persian carpet. Egyptian symbolic patterns.
9 91 Gothic sunflower. R. S. A. N.
10 98 Wave.
11 104 Egyptian ally and enemy. Temp. Rameses II. Wilkinson’s
“Ancient Egyptians,” iii. p. 364.
12 105 Assyrian crenelated pattern.
13 107 Gothic type of trees, Bayeux tapestry.
14 111 Radiated pattern.
15 111 Radiated sunflower.
16 112 Shell pattern.
17 112 Balcony pattern.
18 115 Varied adjustments of square and circle.
19 146 Spangles.
20 195 Needles.
21 208 Feather patterns. Egyptian.
22 216 Application. Egyptian. Auberville’s “Tissus.”

23 217 Embroidered border on mantle. Crimea. “Compte
Rendu.”
24 281 Babylonian or Chaldean house and furniture.
25 311 Italian fifteenth-century pattern. Celtic type.
26 377 Barbed quatrefoil.
27 380 Holbein pattern. Sampler.
28 388 Arms of Embroiderers’ Guild; given by Queen Elizabeth.
29 393 Portion of James II.’s coronation dress; from an old print.

PLATES.

Plate Page. Ref.
Title-Page. Penelope at her loom, reproached by
her son Telemachus. From vase found at
Chiusi, in Etruria. “Monum. d. Inst. Arch.
Rom.” ix. Pl. 42.
1 22 93 Assurbanipal (Sardanapalus). Sculptures from
Nineveh. British Museum.
2 22 93 Portion of royal Babylonian mantle. From
Layard’s “Monuments,” Series i. pl. 9.
3 29 St. John. From King Alfred’s Celtic Book of the
Gospels. Lambeth Palace Library.
4 30 A page of the Book of St. Cuthbert, or Book of
Lindisfarne.
5 33 Silver Bowl from Palestrina. From Clermont
Ganneau’s “Journal Asiatique, Syro-
Egyptien-Phœnicien.”
6 40 93 Empress Theodora. Ravenna Mosaic.
7 42 Italian Embroidery, fifteenth century. South
Kensington Museum.
8 43 Italian and Spanish orphrey, sixteenth century.
9 45 Plâteresque Design. Spanish coverlet, green
velvet and gold, sixteenth century. Goa work.
10 87 Wave Pattern. 1, 4, 9, 12, 13. Greek wave pattern.
2. Key or Mæander Greek wave. 3. Greek

broken wave. 5, 6, 7. Egyptian smooth and
rippling wave pattern. 8. Mediæval wave. 10,
11, 14. Babylonian and Chaldean. 15. Persian
or Greek, from glass bowl, British Museum.
16. English wave (or cloud). Durham
embroideries, tenth century.
11 88 Simple Patterns. 1. Persian. 2. Lotus border,
Egyptian.
12 90 Lotus Borders. 1. Indian. 2, 3. Egyptian. 4, 5,
Greek. 6. Indian.
13 95 102 Indian Lotus. 1. With Assyrian daisy. 2. Lotus. 3.
The egg and tongue, or Vitruvian scroll from
Vignola. “Regole di Ordine di Architettura.”
14 91 Sunflower Pattern. R. S. A. N. Nineteenth
century.
15 92 Portion of a page of the Book of Kells. Dublin
University Library.
16 93 114 Demeter. Greek fictile vase. British Museum.
17 93 217 1. Greek Embroidery, 300 B.C. From tomb of the
Seven Brothers, Crimea.
2. Egyptian painted or embroidered linen. The
cone, bead, daisy, wave. Lotus-under-water
patterns are represented on this fragment.
18 93 Egyptian Tapestry weaving finished with the
needle. British Museum.
19 97 114 Egyptian key patterns. Wilkinson’s “Ancient
Egyptians,” p. 125.
20 99 101 Trees of Life. 1, 2, 3. Assyrian. 4. Sicilian silk. 5.
Mediæval. Birdwood’s “Indian Arts.”
21 101 Trees of Life. 1. Sculpture over gate of Mycenæ.
2. Sicilian silks; Persian type.
22 101 Lotus merged into Tree of Life. 1. Split Chinese
Lotus. 2. Split Persian Lotus, from a frieze by
Benozzo Gozzoli. Ricardi Palace, Florence.
3. Petal of flower. Greek glass bowl from
tomb in Southern Italy.

23 101 Trees of Life. Sicilian silks. Auberville. 1, 2, 3, 4,
5, 10. Persian type. 6, 7, 8, 9, 11. Indian type.
24 101 Tree of Life transformed into vine. Modern
pattern of work from the Principalities.
25 103 Typical Crosses. 1. Swastika fire-stick cross. 2.
From Greek vase, British Museum, 765 B.C.
3. Sectarial mark of Sakti race. India. 4.
Sectarial mark of Buddhists and Jainis. 5. On
early Rhodian pottery. 6. Egyptian prehistoric
cross. 7. Tau cross. 8. Mark of land, Egyptian
and Ninevite. 9. Mark of land, Egyptian and
Ninevite. 10. Clavus, “nail” or “button,” or
sun-cross. 11, 12, 13. Scandinavian sun and
moon crosses. 14, 15, 16. Celtic. 17.
Chrysoclavus. 18, 19. Stauracin patterns. 20.
Norwegian. 21. Runic. 22. Cross in Temple
of the Sun, Palenque. 23. Scotch Celtic cross.
24. Cross at Iona. 25, 26. Runic and
Scandinavian crosses. 27. Cross diapered on
Charlemagne’s dalmatic. 28. From mantle of
Henry II., Emperor of Germany.
26 103 Prehistoric Crosses. 1. Greek. Pallas, with plaited
tunic worked with Swastika. 2. Greek. Ajax
playing at dice with Achilles. Cloak
embroidered with Swastika and other
prehistoric patterns. Fictile vase, Vatican
Museum.
27 105 Assyrian Carpet carved in stone, British Museum.
28 107 Gothic. 1. Dress patterns from old MS. 2, 3. Old
English tiles.
29 109 Cloud Patterns. 1, 2, 3, 7. Japanese. 5, 8, 9.
Mediæval. 4. Chinese. 6. Badge of Richard
II.
30 109 Indo-Chinese Coverlet. Hatfield. Supposed to
have belonged to Oliver Cromwell.

31 109 Fundata Patterns. 1. On Phœnician silver bowl.
(“L’Imagerie Phénicienne.”) 2, 3. From tomb
at Essiout, Egypt. Wilkinson’s “Ancient
Egyptians,” ii. p. 125. 1600 B.C.
32 124 Part of Border of silk, gold, and pearls. Worked
by Blanche, wife of Charles IV. of Bohemia.
Bock’s “Lit. Gew.” ii. p. 246.
33 147 Embroidered Window hanging from portrait of
Mahomet II., by Gentil Bellini; belonging to
Sir Henry Layard.
34 153 110 Classical Silks. 1. Greek. 2. Roman.
35 163 Durham Relics. Persian type of silk weaving.
36 164 Durham Relics. Norman and Persian types mixed.
37 164 Durham Relics. Græco-Egyptian type.
38 164 Egyptian Boat with embroidered and fringed
sails, and floating scarves. Wilkinson’s
“Ancient Egyptians,” iii. p. 211.
39 200 White embroidery from sculptured tomb of a
knight, fifteenth century. Ara Cœli, Rome.
40 201 Processional Cloak, Spanish work, temp. Henry
VIII., belonging to Lord Arundel of Wardour.
41 204 Opus Pulvinarium. Counted stitches. 1. Italian. 2.
Scandinavian. 3. Ancient Egyptian. Turin
Museum.
42 206 Italian Mosaic Stitch work, sixteenth century.
Alford House.
43 214 Japanese Opus Plumarium. White silk.
44 216 25 Opus Consutum. Funeral tent of an Egyptian
queen.
45 219 123 Opus Consutum. “Inlaid” and “onlaid.” Italian,
seventeenth century.
46 235 Egyptian Gobelins finished with the needle.
47 236 Rheims Cathedral Tapestry. The Virgin weaving
and embroidering on frame a “basse-lisse.”
48 243 Tent of Charles the Bold, taken at Grandson,
now in museum at Berne. The badge is that

of the Golden Fleece.
49 252 English Tapestry belonging to Lord Salisbury, at
Hatfield House, temp. Henry VIII.
50 294 Italian Knight of fifteenth century armed for
conquest. Gentile da Fabriano. Academia,
Florence.
51 309 St. Mark. Anglo-Saxon Book of the Gospels.
York Minster Library.
52 312 Classical Pattern adapted into Christian art.
53 318 Charlemagne’s Dalmatic. Vatican Treasury.
54 318 Charlemagne’s Dalmatic. Vatican Treasury.
55 318 Portion of Charlemagne’s Dalmatic. Half-size.
56 319 St. Silvester’s Pluvial. Treasury of St. John
Lateran, Rome. Opus Anglicanum, thirteenth
century.
57 319 Portion of St. Silvester’s Pluvial, showing its
condition.
58 319 Bologna Cope. Museo del Municipio. Opus
Anglicanum.
59 319 Daroca Cope. Archæological Museum at Madrid.
Opus Anglicanum.
60 319 Boniface VIII.’s Cope from Anagni, his native
place; now in Vatican Treasury; twelfth
century.
61 319 Altar Frontal at Anagni, Italy. Italian work,
fourteenth century.
62 320 Worcester Relics of the tenth century. 1. From
tomb of Walter de Cantilupe. 2. From Aix, in
Switzerland. Same type.
63 320 1. Mitre of Thomas à Becket. 2. The cross with
twelve leaves, “for the healing of the
nations.” Coronation vestments at Rheims.
64 321 Anglo-Saxon Work, purple and gold, from tomb
of William de Blois, Worcester. He died
Bishop in 1236.

65 321 A Portion of St. Stephen of Hungary’s Mantle,
worked by his Queen Gisela. From Bock’s
“Kleinodien.”
66 322 Portion of Mantle of Henry II., worked by his
Empress Kunigunda. From Bock’s
“Kleinodien.”
67 325 The Syon Cope. South Kensington Museum.
68 329 Italian Embroideries designed by Pollaiolo;
worked by Paolo da Verona. Sixteenth
century.
69 330 Spanish Altar Frontal. The Arms of Castile
embroidered in gold with pearls. Ashridge.
Plâteresque style, seventeenth century.
70 337 113 Consular Ivories. Two diptychs. 1. Zurich,
Wasser-Kirche. Inscribed to Consul
Areobindus, A.D. 434. 2. At Halberstadt. No
date. From Bock’s “Lit. Gew.”
71 363 Aelfled’s Orphrey, signed by her. Durham
Cathedral Library.
72 363 St. Gregory and St. John (Prophet), from
Aelfled’s orphrey. Durham. English work,
tenth century.
73 365 St. Dunstan in adoration, drawn by himself.
Bodleian Library, Oxford. Tenth century.
74 369 Small Parsemé Patterns from Strutt’s “Royal and
Ecclesiastical Antiquities of the English from
1100 to 1530.”
75 369 English Patterns of embroidery. 1. Panel of a
screen in Hornby Church, Yorkshire. 2. Dress
on a painted window in St. Michael’s Church,
York. 3. Woven material of the Towneley
Copes.
76 375 Opus Anglicanum, twelfth century. British
Museum.
77 376 Typical English Ornaments for ecclesiastical
embroideries, twelfth century.

78 377 Dunstable Pall. Temp. Henry VII.
79 378 Vintners’ Company Pall. Henry VII.
80 378 Henry VII.’s Cope, from Stoneyhurst; designed by
Torrigiano, the sculptor of his tomb.
81 382 Spanish Work. Temp. Henry VIII.
82 383 English “Spanish Work.” Temp. Henry VIII.
83 389 Cushion Cover, Hatfield House. Temp. Elizabeth.
84 390 Oriental “Tree and Beast” Pattern. Cockayne-
Hatley. Temp. James I.
85 391 English Crewel Work. Indian design. Temp.
James I.

NEEDLEWORK AS ART.

INTRODUCTION.
The book of the Science of Art has yet to be written. Art has been called the
Flower of Life, and also the Consoler;—adorning the existence of the
strong and bright,—sheltering and comforting the sad and solitary ones of
the earth. But, rather, it resembles a wide-spreading tree, covered with
varied blossoms—bearing many fruits.
To point out the history and the possibilities in the future of each branch
that shades, refreshes, and gives wholesome fruit to the world, would be a
task worthy of a master-hand and a pen of gold. But less ambitious
labourers in the field of investigation which is only as yet partly cultivated,
may each assist, by carefully collecting a little heap of ascertained facts;
and it is, indeed, the duty of each as he passes to add his pebble to the
slowly accumulating cairn of recorded human knowledge.
Some one has said, “Build your house of little bricks of facts, and you will
soon find it inhabited by a body of truth; and that truth will ally itself with
other houses of facts, and in time a well-ordered, cosmical city will arise.”
My pebble is not yet polished. It is neither a diamond nor a ruby, but I think
there are a few streaks of golden light in it, which I may venture to add to
the daily accumulating treasure in the house of human artistic knowledge.
My object in writing this volume is to fill up an empty space in the English
library of art.
The great exponents of poetic thought—verse, sculpture, painting, and
architecture—have long since been well interpreted and appreciated. Men
and women have written much and well on these large subjects, and we
may hope for more ere long. The secondary or smaller arts have been
hitherto neglected by us,—either treated merely as crafts, to which artistic
education may give help, or as the natural or inferior outcome of the primal
arts, having no claim to the possession of special laws and history. And yet,

when Moses wrote and Homer sang, needlework was no new thing. It was
already consecrated by legendary and traditionary custom to the highest
uses. The gods themselves were honoured by its service, and it preceded
written history in recording heroic deeds and national triumphs.
It may be said that ivory carving is sculpture, and illuminated manuscripts
and coloured glass windows are painting. But for metal work, whether in
iron or gold, a place must be kept apart; and the same privileges are due to
embroidery and to metallurgy. All arts must of necessity have their own
laws and rules, which ensure their beauty of execution and their special
forms of design; these two last, from the nature of their materials, and the
modes of working them, must be studied independently of any connection
with painting, architecture, or sculpture.
Yet, if the unity of nature is an accepted fact,[3] then the acceptance of the
unity of art must follow. Art must be considered as the selection of natural
phenomena by individual minds capable of assimilating and reproducing
them in certain forms and with certain materials adapted to the national
taste, needs, and power of appreciation. If man cannot originate materials,
he can invent combinations;—and this is Art.
If proportion, colour, and sound alike depend on certain mathematical
measurements, and on rhythmical vibrations, there must be a real and
tangible relation between these elements, though applied to obtain different
results. In music, as in all art, harmony is, or ought to be, a first
consideration. We have seen by experiment how a note of our scale can by
touch form geometrical figures with sand on a sheet of glass,—here form
obeys the force of harmony. But what is harmony?
By analogy we may argue from the art of music. We who believe that we
have acquired the knowledge of music as a science, beyond all preceding
knowledge of the subject, have in Europe been able to enjoy only our own
musical scales; whereas throughout the East, those accepted by the human
ear are very various, and appear to depart from what to our senses is
harmony. Those Oriental musics have either been adapted to the Oriental
ear, or the ear has been adapted to appreciate the forms and laws of
harmony with which it came in contact.

The same questions occur to us while examining into the different forms of
decorative art; and we are constantly reminded that the laws which should
govern them, are perhaps, infinitely larger and wider than we with our
limited human capacities and experience, have hitherto been able to
appreciate.
“Ars longa—vita brevis” has been so often said, that from a proverb it has
become a truism; but it must continue to be the refrain of those who write
upon art. The subject is so long, and its ramifications are so intricate, that it
is difficult to include them all under one category.
My furthest aim here is to trace back the art of needlework to its beginning,
without turning my eyes to the right or the left, though I cannot help feeling
myself drawn aside almost irresistibly by casual glimpses of architecture,
sculpture, and painting, which here and there touch very nearly the history
of needlework.
Except where they visibly influence each other, I avoid dealing with the
greater arts, leaving them to the study of the learned in each special branch.
All art, however, throws reflected lights, and gleaning in the track of those
authors who have preceded us, we often pick up valuable hints which we
accept, and make use of them gladly.
Some writers have thought it incumbent on them to give a local habitation
and an abiding place to needlework, and they have regarded it as a branch
of painting. But I cannot endorse this classification. According to Semper,
indeed, it is the mother-art of sculpture and painting, instead of being the
offspring of either or both, as others have maintained.[4] They have, indeed,
such distinct functions that each may justly boast its own original sources.
Painting is the art of colour; sculpture is that of form; embroidery is the art
of clothing forms. They are all so ancient, that in seeking to ascertain their
beginnings and dates. It is difficult to fix the precedence of one over
another. We may compare, distinguish, and yet again change our opinions
as fresh facts come under our observation.
The art of needlework reached its climax long ago, and is now very old.
History and faded rags are the only witnesses to its fabulous glories, in
Classical, Oriental, and early Mediæval days. It would appear that nothing

new remains to be invented. Copies of past styles, and selections from the
scraps we retain and value as models, are all that we can boast of now.
Dr. Rock truly says that few persons of the present day have the faintest
idea of the labour, the money, the time, often bestowed of old upon
embroideries which had been designed as well as wrought by the hands of
men and women, each in their own craft the best and ablest of their day.
Time is too short, our life too densely crowded, to allow leisure for the
extravagance of what is, after all, only a luxury of art—no longer a civilizer,
as of old, but just an efflorescence of our culture.
Embroidery is now essentially “decoration,” and nothing more. It is
intended to appeal to the sense of beauty of the eye, rather than to the
imagination. The designer for needlework should be an artist, but he need
not be a poet. You may omit this art altogether, and you need be none the
less sumptuously clothed and lodged. Yet it is worthy of careful study as
historical evidence, and that in the present and future, as in the past, it may
be an art, and not merely a craft.
For the great web of history is composed of many threads of divers colours,
and the warp and the woof are often exchanged, yet so connected and
knotted together that the continuity is never broken. On this web, Time has
drawn the picture of the past—sometimes faintly, sometimes with indelible
tints and pronounced forms. By poetry; by architecture and its decorations;
by dress, which represents and distinguishes nationalities; by customs, such
as the different forms of burial; or even by such details as painting the eyes;
also by the tradition and outcome of the laws of the tribes that flowed
consecutively over Europe from the East; by the institutions which
remained immutably fixed on their native soil, such as those of the Code of
Manu, and those of Babylon, inscribed on bricks or clay; or by the words,
their form and lettering, in which these are handed down to us;—out of all
these the history of man is being reconstructed.
How valuable is every witness to the ancient records, which were fading
into myths in the memories of men. How joyfully is each little fact hailed as
a landmark, in the general fog of doubt!
Now embroidery may boast that it is a source of landmarks for all time.

Without presuming to fix a date for its first beginning, that which I wish to
impress on the mind of the reader is the long continuity of the art of
needlework.
The sense of antiquity induces reverence, and I claim for the needle an
older and more illustrious age than can be accorded to the brush. While the
great pendulum of Time has swung art in sculpture, painting, and
architecture, from its cradle as in Mycenæ, to its throne in Athens in the
days of Pericles, and then back again to the basest poverty of decaying
Rome—needle work, continually refreshed from Eastern inspiration, never
has fallen so low, though it had never aspired as high as its greater sister
arts.
The stuffs and fabrics of various materials of the Egyptians, Chinese,
Assyrians, and Chaldeans are named in the earliest records of the human
race. How much these decorations depended on weaving, and how much on
embroidery with the needle, may in each case be disputed. The products of
the Babylonian looms are alluded to in the Book of Joshua. Their beauty
tempted Achan to rescue them when Jericho fell;[5] and Ezekiel speaks of
the embroideries of Canneh, Haran, and Eden, as well as of their cloths of
purple and blue, and their chests of garments of divers colours[6].
All these fabrics are named as merchandise, and were carried to the sea-
coast, and thence over the ancient world, by the Phœnicians, the great
shipowners and dealers of the East.
Indian needlework and design is 4000 years old; and the long perspective of
Egyptian art, while leading us still further back into unlimited periods,
shows it changing so slowly, that we feel as if it had been all but stationary
from the beginning.
The Chinese claim 5000 years as the life of their history; but if, as is now
suggested, their civilization is Accadian or Proto-Babylonian, their
wonderful artistic and scientific knowledge may have been fragments of the
great dispersal, secreted and preserved behind the wonderful wall[7] of
stone, silence, and law, where it has lain fossilized ever since. One cannot
but wonder at the perfection of the textile manufactures of the Chinese,
their marvellous embroideries, and the peculiar modes of construction and
design throughout their arts, which have shown but few moments of change

in growth—scarcely a sign of evolution. And we may fairly surmise that
this Accadian culture (if such it be) is reflected from antediluvian tradition.
The archæology of Oriental art is most interesting. We contemplate with
awe the vast splendours of the consecutive civilizations of the East; the
ancient richness and fertility of the whole of the Asiatic continent; the
genius for empire and for commerce; the creative power which seemed to
pour itself forth, unchecked by wars and conquests; the great dynasties
which rose and fell, leaving behind them gigantic works, and the records of
fabulous luxury in the empires of China, Assyria, India, and Persia, of
which the remains have been of late years excavated, deciphered, and
confronted with the historical texts which we have inherited, and had only
partly believed. And studying these new aspects of history, we are
saddened, thinking that the sunrise comes to us from shining over desert
sands or the mounds of empty cities, where the lion and the jackal “reassert
their primeval possession,” or where the European and the Tartar, from the
West and from the East, dispute their rights to suzerainty. We are dazzled
and confused when we look back to those great days when the over-peopled
kingdoms sent forth whole tribes, eastward to the confines of Asia,
southward over India, and westward over Europe; and we bow reverently
before the mighty Power that led the Jews, by a promise and a hope, across
the seething nationalities, through the long passage of time from Abraham
to Solomon; and which is again giving into the hands of those Oriental-
looking men, so much power in shaping the destiny of mankind through
their great riches.
Moses commanded the Hebrew people to lend and never to borrow. They
have obeyed his precept, except in art; to that they have lent or given
nothing. There is no national Jewish art. For music only do they show
artistic genius, and that is European and not Oriental. As illustrating their
lack of intuitive decorative art, one need only refer to the architecture of the
first, second, and third Temple buildings, which apparently reflected
Babylonian and Semitic influences on an early Chaldean type. The
embroideries mentioned by different writers, from Moses to Josephus,
appear to have had always a Babylonian, or later a Persian inspiration.
This absence of artistic genius is very remarkable in a people that had its
origin in the Eastern centre from whence all art has radiated.

The reason that so little survives of ancient embroidery is evident. Woollen
stuffs and threads decay quickly—the moth and rust do corrupt them—and
the very few ancient bits that remain, have been preserved by the
embalming process, which has kept the contents of tombs from becoming
dust.
As to more modern embroideries, we ought to be thankful that the art has
had its fashions; otherwise, the world would be overwhelmed with shabby
rags. Human nature has a tendency to dislike the “old-fashioned”—i.e. the
fashion of the last generation. That which our mothers worked or wore, is
an object for affectionate sentiment, and the best specimens alone are
preserved. That which belonged to our grandfathers and grandmothers has
receded into the rococo; and a few more generations take us back to the
antique, of which so little survives, from wear and tear, carelessness and
theft, that we put away and preserve it as being curious and precious. We
may hope that the general law of the survival of the fittest has guarded what
is most remarkable.
Certain works have been consecrated by the hands that executed them, or
by that of the donor, or by the purpose for which they were bestowed, and
are mostly preserved in churches or national museums. Of these there are
vestments and altar decorations worked by royal and noble ladies; and
coronation garments given by Queens and Empresses, such as Queen
Gisela’s and the Empress Kunigunda’s at Prague and Bamberg, and
Charlemagne’s dalmatic at the Vatican, described in the chapter on
ecclesiastical embroideries. Sculptured effigies help us as to embroidered
patterns; for our forefathers often actually copied in bronze or stone the
patterns of the garments in which the body was buried, or at any rate, those
the man had worn in his life. Of these, King John’s monument at Worcester,
and the surcoat of the Black Prince at Canterbury, are remarkable examples.
[8]

The succeeding chapters will contain sketches of the history of the different
stitches, and of the best examples of stitch and style remaining to us; and I
shall try to extract from both the best suggestions for guidance in design
and handicraft.

Embroidery from its nature is essentially the woman’s art.[9] It needs a
sedentary life, industry and patience. It does not require a room to itself,
and the worker may leave it at any moment between two stitches when
called to other duties. Nunneries produced the finest work of the dark and
middle ages; and their teaching inaugurated the workrooms in the palaces
and castles, where young girls, whether royal, noble, or gentle, were trained
in embroidery as an accomplishment and a household duty.
The history of domestic embroidery ought to be looked upon as that of an
important factor in the humanizing effect of æsthetic culture.
The woman of the house has always been strong to fulfil her part in this
civilizing influence with the implement which custom has awarded to her.
Every man in the ancient East began his life under the tent or in the palace
adorned by the hands of his mother and her maidens, and his home was
made beautiful by his wife and his sisters and their slaves. There, as in
mediæval homes, lessons of morality and religion, and the love and fame of
noble deeds, were taught by the painting of the needle to the minds of the
young men, who would have scorned more direct teaching; and the children
felt the influence, as the women wove what the bards sang.
Alas! we have but few specimens of embroideries of which we know the
history, earlier than the tenth and eleventh centuries.[10] Yet from the days
of the books of the Old Testament and the song of the siege of Troy, down
to the present time, the woman of the house has adorned not only herself
and her dear lord, but she has hung the walls, the seats, the bed, and the
tables with her beautiful creations.
Homer’s women were all artists with the needle. Venus seeking Helen,—

“Like fair Laodice in form and face,
The loveliest nymph of Priam’s royal race,
Here in the palace at her loom she found:
The golden web her own sad story crown’d.
The Trojan wars she weaved (herself the prize),
And the dire triumph of her fatal eyes.”[11]

This must have been intended for hangings.

Hecuba’s wardrobe is thus described:—

“The Phrygian queen to her rich wardrobe went,
Where treasured odours breathed a costly scent;
There lay the vestures of no vulgar art,
Sidonian maids embroider’d every part.
Here, as the queen revolved with careful eyes
The various textures and the various dyes
She chose a web that shone superior far,
And glow’d refulgent as the morning star.”[12]

The women of the Middle Ages were great at the loom and frame. From the
Kleine Heldenbuch of the thirteenth century, Rock quotes these lines:—

“Who taught me to embroider in a frame with
silk,
And to sketch and design the wild and tame
Beasts of the forest and field?
Also to picture on plain surfaces;
Round about to place golden borders—
narrow and a broad one—
With stags and hinds, lifelike.”

Gudrun, like the women of Homer, embroidered history—that of the
ancestors of Siegfried.
But in the Middle Ages the embroiderers were ambitious artists. The deeds
of Roland and the siege of Troy, all romantic and classical lore, provided
subjects for the needle.
Shakespeare gives a pretty picture of the graceful weaver and embroiderer:
—

* * * “Would ever with Marina be:—
Be’t when she weaves the sleided silk,
With fingers long, small, white as milk;
Or when she would with sharp neeld wound
The cambric, which she makes more sound

By hurting it....
Deep clerks she dumbs; and with her neeld
composes
Nature’s own shape, of bud, bird, branch, or
berry,
That even her art sisters the natural roses.”[13]
Before closing this Introduction, I will take the opportunity to protest
against the abuse of the phrase “High Art.” It is generally appropriated by
that which is the lowest and most feeble.
An old design for a chair or table, by no means remarkable originally, but
cheaply copied, and covered with a quaint and dismal cretonne or poorly
worked pattern, of which the design is neither new nor artistic, is introduced
by the upholsterer as belonging to “High Art furniture.” The epithet has
succeeded to what was once “fashionable” and “elegant.” To get rid of
carpets, and put down rugs, to hang up rows of plates instead of family
portraits—this also is “high art.” Likewise gowns lumped upon the
shoulders, with all the folds drawn across, instead of hanging draperies. The
term is never used when we speak of the great arts—painting, sculpture,
and architecture. It is, in fact, only the slang of the cabinet-maker, the
upholsterer, and milliner.
All true Art is very high indeed and apparent; and needs not to be
introduced with a puff. It sits enthroned between Poetry and History. Even
those who are ignorant of its laws feel its influence, and the soothing grace
which it sheds, falling like the rain, equally upon the just and the unjust.
Man’s nature always responds to the truly high and beautiful; only the most
degraded are deprived of this source of happiness. And there are but few
women, till debased by cruelty, misery, or drink, that do not try in some
humble way (but especially with their needle) to adorn their own persons,
their children, and their homes; and if their art is not high, it yet has the
power to elevate them.[14] While the most ambitious women try a higher
flight, into the regions of poetry, literature, painting, and even sculpture
(why has no woman ever been an architect?), millions have enjoyed the art
of the needle for thousands of years, and it will continue to be a solace and
a delight as long as the world lasts, for, like all art, it gives the ever new joy
of creation.

FOOTNOTES:
[3] See Duke of Argyll’s “Unity of Nature.”
[4] Walls, pillars, and roofs were certainly hung with textile ornament before
they were carved or painted. This is Semper’s theory, and though Woltmann and
Woermann (“History of Painting,” Eng. Trans., Sidney Colvin, p. 38) hardly
accept this view, they do not gainsay it. The women who wove hangings for the
grove, or more literally, “coverings for the houses” of the grove, were probably
the priestesses of Astarte, and wove and worked the hangings of various colours.
2 Kings xxii.; Ezek. xvi. 16-18.
“It is probable that the earliest kind of pictures were either woven or
embroidered upon figured stuffs of various colours; and that in these decorations
the Greeks in the first instance imitated the Semitic races, who had practised
them from time immemorial.” See Woltmann and Woermann’s “History of
Painting” (Eng. Trans.), p. 38.
[5] Joshua vii.
[6] Ezek. xxvii. 23.
[7] The wall of China, which, both figuratively and literally, enclosed its
civilization, and fenced off that of the outer world, for thousands of years.
[8] When the tomb of King John was opened, the body was found wrapped in
the same dress as that sculptured on his effigy. The surcoat of the Black Prince,
of embroidered velvet, still hangs above his monument, on which it is exactly
reproduced.
[9] Yet men, too, have wielded the embroidering needle.
[10] These remnants are not, like the straws in amber, only precious because
they are curious; they are most suggestive as works of art.
[11] Pope’s Homer, Iliad, book iii.
[12] Ibid. book vi.
[13] Shakespeare, “Pericles, Prince of Tyre,” act iv. 20; v. 5.
[14] Surely it is a humanizing and Christian principle which in Italy permits
artistic work to be done in the prisons where criminals are confined for life.
Sisters of Mercy teach lace-making to the wretched women who, having
committed great crimes, may never be seen again. The produce of the work
helps to pay the expense of the prison, and at the same time a very small
percentage is given to the prisoners to send to their friends, or to spend on little
comforts, thus encouraging the poor human creatures to exercise their best
powers. We believe this is sometimes allowed also in England and France.

CHAPTER I.
STYLE.

In venturing to approach so great a subject as the history of style, I would
beg my readers to believe how well I am aware that on each point much
more has been already carefully treated by previous writers, than will fall
within the limits of a chapter that is intended only to throw light on textile
art, and especially on embroidery.
I suppose it is the same in all subjects of human speculation which are
worthy of serious study; and therefore I ought not to have been surprised to
find how much has already been written on needlework and embroidery,
and how unconsciously I, at least, have passed by and ignored these notices,
till it struck me that I ought to know something of the history and principles
of the art which with others, I was striving to revive and improve.
Then new and old facts crowded round me, and became significant and
interesting. I longed to know something of the first worker and the first
needle; and behold the needle has been found!—among the débris of the
life of the Neolithic cave-man, made of bone and very neatly fashioned.
Alas! the workwoman and her work are gone to dust; but there is the
needle!—proof positive that the craft existed before the last glacial period
in Britain.[15] How long ago this was, we may conjecture, but can never
finally ascertain. Then I find embroidery named by the earliest historians,
by every poet of antiquity, and by the first travellers in the East; and it has
been the subject of laws and enactments from the date of the Code of Manu
in India, to the present century. One becomes eager to systematize all this
information, and to share with the workers and thinkers of the craft, the
pleasure found in its study.
Perhaps what is here collected may appear somewhat bald and disjointed;
but antiquity, both human and historical, is apt to be bald; and its
dislocation and disjointed condition are owing to the frequent cataclysms,
physical, political, and social, which needlework has survived, bringing

down to us the same stitches which served the same purposes for decoration
under the Code of Manu, and adorned the Sanctuary in the wilderness; and
those stitches probably were not new then.
I propose to give a slight sketch of the origin of the styles[16] that have
followed each other, noting the national influences that have displaced or
altered them, and the overlap of style caused by outside events.
First, I would define what “Style” means.
Style is the mark impressed on art by a national period, short or long. It
fades, it wanes, and then some historical element enters on the scene, which
carries with it new materials, needs, and tastes (either imported or springing
up under the new conditions). The style of the day in art and literature alters
so perceptibly, that all who have had any artistic training are at once aware
of the difference.
Of late years, the science of history has been greatly assisted by the science
of language. When the mute language of art shall have been patiently
deciphered, the historian will be furnished with new powers in his
researches after truth.
The first “ineffaceable” is a word; the second a pattern. This is proved by
the history of needlework.
As the world grows old, its youth becomes more interesting. Alas! the
childhood of mankind is so distant, and it was so long before it learned its
letters, that but few facts have come down to us, on which we may firmly
build our theories; yet we must acknowledge the great stride that has been
made in the last few years, in the scientific mode of extracting history from
the ruins and tombs, and even the dust-heaps, of the past. Whole epochs,
which fifty years ago were as blank as the then maps of Central Africa, are
being now gradually covered with landmarks.
Layard, Rawlinson, C. T. Newton, Botta, Rassam, Schliemann, Birch, G.
Smith, and a crowd of archæologists, and even unscientific explorers, are
collecting the materials from which the history of mankind is being
reconstructed.

From them I have sought information about the art of embroidery, and I
find that Semper gives it a high pre-eminence as to its antiquity, making it
the foundation and starting-point of all art. He clothes not only man, but
architecture, with the products of the loom and the needle; and derives from
them in succession, painting, bas-relief, and sculpture.[17]

Style has to be considered in two different aspects, from two different
standpoints. First, historically and archæologically, distinguishing and
dating the forms which follow upon each other; and tracing them back in
the order of their natural sequence; so as to guide us to the root, nay, to the
seed[18] of each and all art.
The subsidiary art of embroidery, in its highest form the handmaid of
architecture, is full of suggestion, and may assist us greatly in the search
which culminates in the text of “In the beginning.”
The other point of view from which style should be considered is the
æsthetic. This enables us to criticize the works of different periods;
extracting, as far as we may, rules for the beautiful and the commendable,
and seeking to find the “why?” also observing the operation of the law by
which decay follows too soon after the best and highest efforts of genius,
thought, and invention in art.
My present object is the history of consecutive styles, in so far as they
concern needlework.
Alas! nothing endures. This law is acknowledged by Goethe, when he
makes Jove answer Venus, who bewailed that all that is beautiful must die,
—that he had only bestowed beauty on the evanescent.
It seems as if the moment the best is attained, men, ceasing to struggle for
the better, fall back at once hopelessly and become mere imitators. They no
longer follow a type, but copy a model, and then copy the copy. Imitation is
a precipice, a swift descent through poverty of thought into the chaos of
mannerism, in the place of style.

The imitative tendency, as existing in all human minds, cannot be ignored
or despised. In individuals it accompanies enthusiasm for the beautiful, and
the graceful charm of sympathy. It maintains continuity between specimen
and specimen, between artist and artist, between century and century; and it
is this which enables an adept to say with certainty of consecutive styles,
“This is Spanish work of the sixteenth century; that is Flemish or German
work of the seventeenth century.”
The theory of development and of the survival of the fittest has been
worked so hard, that it sometimes breaks down under the task imposed
upon it. It would need to include Death in its procedure. In our creed,
Death, means the moment of entrance into a higher existence; but in art it
means extinction, leaving behind neither a history nor an artisan—only,
perhaps, an infinitely small tradition, like the grain of corn preserved in the
wrappings of a mummy, from which at first accident, and then care and
culture, may evoke a future life.
The various ways in which art has appeared at the beginning cannot here be
discussed; nor how the Chinese and Hindu may have leapt into a perfection
which has stood still for thousands of years, protected alike from expansion
as from destruction, by the swaddling bands of codified custom; while
Greek art rose like the sun, shone over the civilized world, and set—never
again to see another epoch of glory. These subjects must be left for the
study of the anthropological philosopher, who is working for the assistance
and guidance of the future historian of art.
Style in needlework has passed through many phases since the aboriginal,
prehistoric woman, with the bone needle, drew together the edges of the
skins of the animals she had prepared for food.
For absolute necessity, in forming the garments and covering the tent,
needlework need go no further than the seam. This, however, in the woven
or plaited material, must fray where it is shaped, and become fringed at the
edges. Every long seam is a suggestion, and every shaped edge a snare.
The fringe lends itself to the tassel, and the shaped seam suggests a pattern;
up-stitches are needed for binding the web, and before she is aware of it, the
worker finds herself adorning, embroidering; and the craft enters the
outskirts of the region of art.

The humble early efforts at decoration, called by the French “primitif,” are
the first we know and class, and are found in all savage attempts at
ornament. This style consists mainly of straight lines, zigzags, wavy lines,
dots, and little discs.[19]
Gold discs of many sizes, and worked with a variety of patterns, are found
equally in the tomb of the warrior at Mycenæ, and in Ashantee,
accompanied in both cases with gold masks covering the faces of the dead.
The discs or buttons remind us of those found in Etruscan tombs, though
the execution of these last is more advanced. They appear to be the origin of
the “clavus” or nail-headed pattern woven into silks in the Palace of the
Cæsars. The last recorded survival of this pattern is in woven materials for
ecclesiastical purposes in the Middle Ages.
Of very early needlework we only find here and there a fragment, illustrated
occasionally by passing allusions in poetry and history.
The ornamental art of Hissarlik[20] is so primitive that we cannot feel that it
has any resemblance to that described as Trojan by Homer, who probably
adorned his song with the art he had known elsewhere.[21]
We know not what the actual heroes of the Iliad and Odyssey wore; but we
do know that what Homer describes, he must have seen. Was Homer,
therefore, the contemporary of the siege of Troy?—or does he not rather
speak of the customs and costumes of his own time, and apply them to the
traditions of the heroic ages of Greece? Whatever be the date of Homer
himself, we can, with the help of contemporary survivals, reconstruct the
house and the hall, and even furnish them, and clothe the women and the
princes, the beggars and the herdsmen.
From the remains of Egyptian, Babylonian, and Assyrian art we can
perceive their differences and their affinities. It is from textile fragments,
found mostly in tombs, that we obtain dates, and can suggest them for other
specimens.
The funeral tent of Shishak’s mother-in-law, at Boulac, is most valuable as
showing what was the textile art of that early period.[22]
The corselet which, according to Herodotus, was given by Amasis, King of
Egypt, to the Temple of Minerva at Lindos, in Rhodes, was possibly worked

in this style; for Babylonian
embroidery was greatly prized in
Egypt, and imitated.
The second corselet given by Amasis
to the Lacædemonians was worked in
gold and colours, with animals and
other decorations. This was of the
seventh century B.C.[23]
Amongst the arms painted on the wall
of the tomb of Rameses, at Thebes (in
Egypt), is a corselet, apparently of rich
stuff,[24] embroidered with lions and
other devices. (Fig. 1.)
The Phœnicians imbibed and
reproduced the styles they met with in
their voyages. The bowls found in
Cyprus described and engraved in the
Fig. 1.
September number of the “Magazine of
Egyptian corselet.
Art” (1883), are most interesting
(Wilkinson’s “Ancient
illustrations of the meeting of two
Egyptians.”)
national styles, the Assyrian and the
Egyptian.[25]
Homer’s “Shield of Achilles”[26] must, in general design, have resembled
these bowls (see Pl. 5). They also recall the description by Josephus of the
Temple veils at Jerusalem, which were Babylonian.[27]
Phœnicia, which was the carrier of all art, dropped specimens here and
there, for many hundred years, along the borders of the Mediterranean and
the coasts of Spain. We fancy we can trace her ocean-path by the western
shores of Africa, and even to America; otherwise, how could it happen that
a mummy-wrapping in Peru should so nearly resemble some of those
wrappings found at Saccarah,[28] in Egypt, woven in precisely the same
tapestry fashion?

Among the puzzling phenomena due probably to Phœnician commerce, is
the complete suite of the sacerdotal ornaments of a High Priest, found in his
tomb,[29] now in the Vatican Museum. This reminds us of other specimens
of archaic art from distant sources, that our attention is forcibly arrested,
and we wonder whence they came, and whether they were collected from
alien civilizations by the Phœnicians before they dispersed them.[30]
Certain Egyptian sculptures of deformed and repulsive divinities—idols of
the baser sort—are most interesting and puzzling by their affinity in style to
the Indo-Dravidian and the art of Mexico, while they are entirely unlike that
of Egypt. If Atlantis and its arts never existed, it may be suggested that it
was the eastern coast of America that was spoken of under that name by the
Egyptian priest with whom Herodotus conversed.
The Babylonian and Ninevite embroideries, carefully executed on their bas-
reliefs, have a masculine look, which suggests the design of an artist and the
work of slaves. There is no following out of graceful fancies; one set of
selected forms (each probably with a symbolical intention) following
another. The effect, as seen on the sculptures in the British Museum, is
royally gorgeous; and one feels that creatures inferior to monarchs or
satraps could never have aspired to such splendours. Probably the
embroidery on their corselets was executed in gold wire, treated as thread,
and taken through the material; and the same system was carried out in
adorning the trappings of the horses and the chariots. The solid masses of
embroidery may have been afterwards subjected to the action of the
hammer, which would account for their appearing like jeweller’s work in
the bas-reliefs (Pl. 1 and 2).

Pl. 1.

See larger image

Assurbanipal fighting lions.
British Museum.

Pl. 2.

See larger image

Portion of a Babylonian Royal Mantle. Layard’s “Monuments,” series
i., pl. 9.

The style of the Babylonian embroideries appears to have been naturalistic
though conventionalized. We may judge of their styles for different
purposes by the reliefs in the British Museum. From their veils and curtains
at a later date, when they had crossed their art with that of India, we may
imagine the mystical design of the Temple curtain as described by
Josephus; in fact, as much as possible embracing all things on the earth and
above it, excepting the images of the heavenly bodies.[31]
Small carpets from Persia of the Middle Ages, as well as those woven and
embroidered even to the present day, are echoes of the ancient Babylonian
style, and most interesting as historical records of the traditions of human
taste. Our artistic interests are stirred when we read in Ezekiel lists of the
fabrics and materials of which Tyre had become the central depôt, and we
enjoy tracing them to the various looms, named in verse and history, where

they were adorned with embroidery, and then either became articles of
commerce, or were stored away to be kept religiously as heirlooms, or
presented as gifts to the temples or to honoured guests.
Mr. G. Smith, after saying that the Babylonian is without doubt the oldest of
civilizations, continues thus:—“To us the history of Babylonia has an
interest beyond that of Egypt, on account of its more intimate connection
with our own civilization.[32] Babylon was the centre from which it spread
into Assyria, thence to Asia Minor and Phœnicia, then to Greece and Rome,
and so to all Europe. The Jews brought the traditions of the creation and of
early religion from Ur of the Chaldees,[33] and thus preserved they became
the heritage of all mankind; while the science and civilization of that
wonderful people (the Babylonians) became the basis of modern research
and advancement.”[34]
The hangings of the Tabernacle are so carefully described in the book of
Exodus, that we can see in fancy the linen curtains, blue or white,
embroidered in scarlet, purple, blue, and gold; the cherubim in the woven
material; the fringes enriched with flowers, buds, fruit, and golden bells:
and we can appreciate how little of Egyptian art and style the children of
Israel brought back from their long captivity, and how soon they reverted to
their ancient Chaldean proclivities, after returning to their wandering life of
the tent.
On the bronze gates from the mound of Balawat, near Nimroud, set up by
Shalmaneser to celebrate his conquest of Tyre and Sidon,[35] we find a
portable tabernacle, evidently meant to accompany the army on a march. It
is not much larger than a four-post bed, with transverse poles for drawing
the curtains, all fringed with bells and fruit. This is an illustration of the
motive for the Tabernacle of the forty years’ wandering in the desert. (Fig.
2.)

Fig. 2.
Tabernacle on gates of Balawat, time of Shalmaneser II. (British
Museum).

Egyptian textile art is, perhaps, that of which we have the most early
specimens. These are to be seen at Boulac, at Vienna, Turin, and the British
Museum.[36] The Hieroglyphic, the Archaic, and the Græco-Egyptian are all
unmistakably the consecutive outcome of the national original style, which
had totally disappeared in the beginning of our era. Few of the embroideries

are more than two thousand five hundred years old. But the great piece of
patchwork in leather, “the funeral tent of an Egyptian queen,” as it covered
the remains of a contemporary of Solomon,[37] absolutely exhibits the
proficiency of the designer and the needlework of the eleventh century B.C.
(Pl. 44.)
The connection between Indian and Egyptian early art appears to have
existed only in their use of the lotus as an emblem and a constant
decoration; but their manner of employing it was characteristically
different. (Pl. 12 and 13.)
The Phœnicians carried with them the seeds of the Egyptian style over the
ancient world; but these seeds only took root and flourished on the soil of
Greece. The imitations of Egyptian style reappeared in Rome, and again in
France “under the two Empires.” In both cases they were only imitations,
and neither had any permanent influence on the art of their day.
I shall have to allude very often to our Eastern sources of artistic culture.
Our own Aryan ancestors were so impregnated with beautiful ideas, that we
must believe that we inherit from them all our graceful appreciation of
naturalistic ornament. But even Aryan art met with reverses on its Eastern
soil, from which it constantly rose again and renewed itself.
The Mongols crushed for a time the element of beauty in India. They
introduced a barbarous and hideous style which has its only counterpart in
that of Central America. It was the produce of a religion, superstitious,
cruel, and devilish.
The Aryan art of India, which was elegant and spiritual, was revived by the
kindred influence of Persia, and by the Renaissance in Europe. Italian and
other artists were employed in India, and “the spirit of aerial grace, and the
delicate sense of beauty in natural forms, blossomed afresh and flourished
for 300 years. Birds, flowers, fruit, butterflies, became once more the
legitimate ornament of every material.”[38]
I continue to quote from Sir G. Birdwood’s “Arts of India.” “The Code of
Manu, from 900 to 300 B.C., has secured to the village system of India a
permanent class of hereditary artistic workmen and artisans, who have
through these 2500 years, at least, been trained to the same manipulations,

and who therefore translate any foreign work which is placed before them
to copy, into something characteristically Indian.”[39] Indian art has
borrowed freely from all sources without losing its own individuality. It has
been said, “There is nothing newer in it than of the sixteenth century; and
even then nothing was original, especially in the minor arts.” But this is
owing to the Hindu being equally endowed with assimilative and receptive
capacity,[40] so that in the hands of the Indian craftsman everything assumes
the distinctive expression of ancient Indian art.
In India everything is hand-wrought; but as the spirit of its decorative art “is
that of a crystallized tradition, its type has remained almost unaltered since
the Aryan genius culminated in the Ramâyana and Mahabhârata—and yet
each artisan in India is a true artist.”[41] In art, unfortunately, “the letter
killeth;” and true artists as they are, the ancient traditions bind and cramp
them, while the ancient materials, the dyes, and the absolute command of
time are failing: so that the beauty of Indian embroideries and other
decorations is gradually reducing itself to mannerism, which is more
dangerous to art than even had been the vicissitudes of war; for when
peaceful days returned, and the waves of conquest had subsided, the ancient
arts were found again deeply embedded in the traditions of the people. They
gradually returned to their old ways, which are so indelible in the Hindu
mind, that they will perhaps survive even the fashions of to-day.[42]
From Yates’ account it would appear that Europe had been fertilized with
taste in art and manufactures from the East by three different routes.
The Egyptian civilization, with all its Eastern antecedents and traditions,
came to us by the Mediterranean and the Adriatic; the Phœnicians being the
merchants who brought it through those channels. The Etruscans, who were
the pedlars of Europe, travelled north, conveying golden ornaments and
coral, and bringing back jet and amber. Their commercial track is to be
traced by the contents of tombs on their path.[43]

Pl. 3.

See larger image

St. John. From King Alfred’s Celtic Book of the Gospels.
Lambeth Palace Library.

Secondly, there was also a Slavonian route from Eastern Asia, which
conveyed Oriental art to the north of Europe. Celtic art, which certainly has
something of the Indo-Chinese style, came to us probably by this route.
Another branch of the Celtic family was settled on the north-eastern shores
of the Adriatic. Celtic ideas and forms in art probably crossed Europe from
this point,[44] and came to us meeting a cognate influence,[45] arriving from
the north.[46] (Pl. 3.)
Thirdly, Oriental taste and textiles came from the Byzantine Empire in the
early days of Christianity, spreading to Sicily, Italy, Spain, and finally to
France, Germany, and Britain.
Runic art, whether Scandinavian or our own purer Celtic, is so remarkable
for its independence of all other European national and traditional design,

that I cannot omit a brief notice of it, though we have no ascertained relics
of any of its embroideries.[47] It appears to have received, in addition to its
own universal stamp—evidently derived from one original source—certain
influences impressed on it like a seal by each country through which it
flowed.[48] Wherever the Runes are carved in stone, or worked on bronze,
gold, silver, ivory, or wood, or painted in their splendid illuminations (pl.
4), the involved serpent, which was the sign of their faith, appears,
sometimes covered with Runic inscriptions; and this inscribed serpent, later,
is twined round or heaped at the foot of the peculiar Scandinavian-shaped
cross, the type of conversion. The serpent was sometimes altered into the
partial semblance of a four-footed animal, the body and tail being
lengthened and twined, and sometimes split, to give a new turn to the
pattern. (Fig. 3.) All these zoomorphic patterns, as well as the human
figures seen in the Book of Kells, the missal at Lambeth, and the
Lindisfarne Book (which is, however, more English in its style), are yet of
an Indo-Chinese type; the wicker-work motives often replacing the
involved serpent design.

Fig. 3.
Celtic Zoomorphic pattern.

The Paganism of our own Celtic art, when it appears, is an interpolation
between our first and second Christian conversions, and was brought to us
in the incursions of the Vikings over Scotland and into England.

See larger image

Page from the Lindisfarne MSS. British Museum

Pl. 5.

See larger image

Silver bowl from Palestrina. Ganneau. “Journal Asiatique, Coupe de
Palestrina.” 1880.

Our knowledge of their advanced and most singular art comes out of their
tombs, in which the warrior was laid with all his arms and his horse and his
precious possessions, splendidly clothed according to his degree—in the
belief that he would need them again in a future world.
This northern tradition was so long-lived, that Frederick Casimir, a knight
of the Teutonic Order, was buried with his sword and his horse at Treves, in
1781.[49]
Greek embroideries we can perfectly appreciate, by studying Hope’s
“Costumes of the Ancients,” and the works of Millingen and others; also the
fictile vases in the British Museum and elsewhere. On these are depicted the
Hellenic gods, the wars, and the home life of the Greeks. The worked or
woven patterns on their draperies are infinitely varied, and range over many

centuries of design, and they are almost always beautiful. It is melancholy
to have to confess that in this, as in all their art, the Greek taste is
inimitable; yet we may profit by the lessons it teaches us. These are: variety
without redundancy; grace without affectation; simplicity without poverty;
the appropriate, the harmonious, and the serene, rather than that which is
astonishing, painful, or awe-inspiring. These principles were carried into the
smallest arts, and we can trace them in the shaping of a cup or the
decoration of a mantle, as in the frieze of the Parthenon.
Homer makes constant mention of the women’s work. Penelope’s web is
oftenest quoted. This was a shroud for her Father-in-law. Ulysses brought
home a large collection of fine embroidered garments, contributed by his
fair hostesses during his travels.
Pallas Athene patronized the craft of the embroiderers; and the sacred
peplos which robed her statue, and was renewed every year, was
embroidered by noble maidens, under the superintendence of a priestess of
her temple. It represented the battles of the gods and the giants (fig. 4), till
the portraits of living men were profanely introduced into the design. The
new peplos was carried to the temple, floating like a flag, in procession
through the city.
The goddess to whom the Greeks gave the protection of this art was wise as
well as accomplished, and knew that it was good for women reverently to
approach art by painting with their needles. She always was seen in
embroidered garments, and worked as well as wove them herself. She
appeared to Ulysses in the steading of Eumœus, the swineherd, as a
“woman tall and fair, and skilful in splendid handiwork.”[50]

Homer never tires of praising the
women’s work, and the chests of
splendid garments laid up in the
treasure-houses.[51] Helen gave of
her work to Telemachus: “Helen,
the fair lady, stood by the coffer
wherein were her robes of curious
needlework which she herself had
wrought. Then Helen, the fair
lady, lifted it out, the widest and
most beautifully embroidered of
all—and it shone like a star; and
this she sent as a gift to his future
wife.”[52]
Semper’s theory is, that the one
chief import of Oriental style
being embroideries, therefore the
hangings and dresses arriving
from Asia gave the poetic Greek
the motives for his art, his
civilization, his legends, and his
gods.[53] This may or may not be;
there is no doubt that they
influenced them.[54]
Böttiger accordingly believes that
Homer’s descriptions of beautiful
Fig. 4. dress and furnishings are derived
Pallas Athene attired in the sacred from, or at least influenced by,
peplos. what he had learnt of the
(Panathenaic Vase, British Babylonian and Chaldean
Museum.) embroideries. This is very
probable, and would account for
his poetical design on the shield of Achilles, in which his own inspiration
dictated the possibilities of the then practised arts of Asia, of which the
fame and occasional glimpses were already drifting westward. (Plate 5.)

The description of the shield of Achilles is as follows: Hephaistos, “the
lame god,” “threw bronze that weareth not, into the fire; and tin, and
precious gold and silver.” “He fashioned the shield great and strong, with
five folds (or circles) in the shield itself.” “Then wrought he the earth and
the sea, and the unwearying sun, and the moon waxing to its full, and the
signs, every one wherewith the heavens are crowned.” “Also he fashioned
therein two cities of mortal men; and here were marriage feasts, and brides
led home by the blaze of torches—young men whirling in the dance, and
the women standing each at her door marvelling.” Then a street fight, and
the elders sitting in judgment. The other city was being besieged; and there
is a wonderful description of the battle fought on the river banks, and
“Strife, Tumult, and Death” personified, and mingling in the fight. Then he
set in the shield the labours of the husbandman. This is so exquisitely
beautiful that with difficulty I refrain from quoting it all. “He wrought
thereon a herd of kine with upright horns, and the kine were fashioned of
gold and tin,” “and herdsmen of gold were following after them.” “Also did
the glorious lame god devise a dancing-place like unto that which once, in
wide Knosos, Daidalos wrought for Ariadne of the lovely tresses. There
were youths dancing and maidens of costly wooing, their hands upon their
waists.” “And now would they run round with deft feet exceedingly
lightly”—“and now would they run in lines to meet each other.” “And a
great company stood round the lovely dance in joy; and among them a
divine minstrel was making music on his lyre; and through the midst of
them, as he began his strain, two tumblers whirled. Also he set therein the
great might of the River of Ocean, around the utmost rim of the cunningly-
fashioned shield.”[55]
There is, indeed, every proof that Greek art was the joint product of the
Egyptian and Assyrian civilizations. Their amalgamation gave birth to the
archaic style, struggling to express the strength and the beauty of man—half
heroic, half divine. Gradually, all the surrounding decorations of life
assumed as a governing principle and motive, the worth of noble beauty.
The Greeks were the first artists. They broke away from the ancient
trammels of customary forms, and replaced law with liberty of thought, and
tradition with poetry.

They destroyed no old ideas, but they selected, appropriated, and evoked
beauty from every source. From the great days of Athens we may date the
moment when materials became entirely subservient to art, and the minds
of individual men were stamped on their works and dated them. Phases
indeed followed each other, showing the links of tradition which still bound
men’s minds together to a certain extent, and formed the general style of the
day. Yet there was in art from that time—life, sometimes death,—but then a
resurrection.
It appears from classical writers that about 300 B.C. Greek art had thrown
itself into many new forms. Painting, for example, had tried all themes
excepting landscapes. We are told that within the space of 150 years the art
had passed through every technical stage; from the tinted profile system of
Polygnotus to the proper pictorial system of natural scenes, composed with
natural backgrounds; and Peiraiïkos is named as an artist of genre—a
painter of barbers and cobblers, booths, asses, eatables, and such-like
realistic subjects.[56]
I suppose there is no doubt that all the Romans knew or felt of art was
borrowed directly or indirectly from Greece,[57] first through Phœnician and
perhaps Etruscan sources, and finally by conquest. Everything we have of
their art shows their imitation of Grecian models. Their embroideries would
certainly have shown the same impress.
Greece—herself crushed and demoralized—even as late as the Eastern
Empire gave to Rome the fashion of the Byzantine taste, which she at once
adopted, and it was called the Romanesque. This style, which was partly
Arab, still prevails in Eastern Europe, having clung to the Greek Church. In
her best days, Roman poetry, architecture, and decorative arts were Greek
of Greece, imitating its highest types, but never creating.
It is surely allowable to quote here one of Virgil’s Homeric echoes, which
touches upon our especial subject,—

“Mournful at heart at that supreme farewell,
Andromache brings robes of border’d gold;
A Phrygian cloak, too, for Ascanius.
And yielding not the palm in courtesy,

Loads him with woven treasures, and thus
speaks:
‘Take these gifts, too, to serve as monuments
Of my hand-labour, boy; so may they bear
Their witness to Andromache’s long love,
The wife of Hector:—take them, these last gifts
Thy kindred can bestow; in this sad world
Sole image left of my Astyanax!’”[58]
It is sad to mark how not only the refinements of taste, but even the guiding
principles of art, were gradually lost in the humiliation of a conquered
people, the dulness and discouragement which followed on the expatriation
or destruction of their accumulated treasures, and the deterioration of the
Greek artist and artisan, carried prisoners to Rome, and settled there
because it was the seat of luxury and empire. As the captive Jews hung their
harps on the willow-trees by the waters of Babylon, and refused to sing, so
Greek genius succumbed, weighed down by Roman chains. It sickened and
died in exile.
Late Roman art reminds us of the art of Etruria in its archaic days, except
that the freshness and promise are wanting, and that the one was in its first,
the other its second childhood.
Before entering on the subject of Christian art, I must again refer, however
briefly, to the Eastern origin of all art. It is evident that this had always
flowed in streams of many types from that high watershed of Central Asia,
where our human race is said to have been created, and whence all wisdom
and knowledge have emanated. In the image of the Creator, man issued
from thence, endowed with the gift of the creative power. Wave after wave
of fresh and apparently differing nationalities followed each other; partially
submerging those that had gone before, and spreading till it had reached the
furthest shores of the Northern seas and the Atlantic, and encircled the
Mediterranean. They all followed the same course from east to west. The
Greek civilization was indeed so dazzling and strong, that it lighted the
world all around; and India, Persia, and Assyria felt its influence reflected
back on its old Asian cradle.

But from the same high watershed[59] flowed other tribal types towards
China, Java, and Japan, that had no affinity with any western civilization;
and while the Assyrian, Persian, Indian, and Mongolian styles mixed and
overlapped so near their sources, that it is sometimes hardly possible to
reason out and classify their resemblances and their differences, the tribes
flowing Eastward turned aside and went their own way, and have remained
till now perfectly distinct.[60]
In spite of their matchless dexterity in the manipulation of their materials,
the infinite variety of their stitches, and exquisite finish in execution,
carrying out to the utmost point the intended effect, yet Chinese and
Japanese textile art differs in its inner principles from all our accepted
canons of taste; so that their want of harmony, and sometimes their
absurdity, is a puzzle of which we cannot find the key. This I have already
alluded to (p. 3).
I purposely avoid the questions suggested by Chinese art. The immense
antiquity it claims cannot be allowed without hesitation. M. Terrien de la
Couperie, however, believes that he has found the actual point of departure
of Chinese civilization, and he considers it to be an early offshoot from
Babylon.[61] He supports his theory on linguistic grounds, and we must
anxiously wait to see if it is corroborated by further researches into the
earliest records of the archaic Chinese literature. But immobility in art is a
Chinese characteristic, and no national cataclysms seem to have disturbed
it. The oldest specimens known are very like the most modern. Yet an adept,
learned in Chinese art, can detect the signs which mark its different epochs.
In this they differ from the Japanese, who, added to their inherited exquisite
appreciation of natural beauty, have a power of assimilation that might lead
in time to their possessing a school of art which, being really original, might
become the style of the future. The civilization of Japan is not older than the
fifth century A.D., and was probably then imported from Corea. Some of the
earliest specimens we know of their art are embroidered religious pictures
by the son of a Mikado Sholokutaiski, who was in the seventh century the
great apostle of Buddhism in Japan; and the next earliest works are by the
first nun, Honi, in the eighth century. We have European work as old, and it
is most interesting to compare the differences of their styles and stitches.

We must now return to the beginning of our era, when we find Greek taste,
such as it was, still influencing and colouring art in Italy, and throughout
Europe, Asia, and Africa, wherever Roman colonies were founded, till the
eighth century. It died hard; but by that time the barbarians had poured from
the east and north in successive waves, and conquered and suppressed the
classical civilization.
Nothing is so puzzling in textile art as the mixture of styles during the first
1000 years A.D. The Græco-Roman, the Byzantine, and the Egyptian,
crossed by the Arabian, Persian, and Indian styles, were reproduced in the
Sicilian looms. Certain stock patterns, such as the reclining hares or fawns,
as we find them on the Shishak pall, or that of the Tree of Life, approached
by worshipping men or animals, originating in Assyrian art, are employed
as borders, and fill up vacant spaces. The information collected from the
tombs in the Crimea immediately preceding our era, is supplemented by the
variety in style and materials from the Fayoum, now placed by Herr
Graf’schen in the Museum at Vienna.
Christian art, which began in Byzantium, gradually grew, and formed itself
into the Gothic,[62] which in time overcame the general chaos of style.
Eastern art continued to flow westward, modifying and suggesting. When
the Phœnicians and Carthaginians had laid down their ancient commercial
sceptre, it was taken up by the Greeks, and later by the Venetians and
Genoese, always trading with Asiatic goods. Then the arts of the
Scandinavians[63] and of the Celts (who were the weavers), though barbaric,
still retained and spread certain Oriental traditions. Luxury was born in
Babylon, and Persia became its nurse, whence all its glories and
refinements spread over the world. But if luxury was Babylonian, art was
Greek. Alas! the love of luxury survived in Rome the taste for art.

Pl. 6.

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The Empress Theodora. Mosaic at Ravenna. Church of San. Vitale.

At Ravenna we learn much of the early Christian period from the mosaics
in the churches. The Empress Theodora and her ladies appear to be clothed
in Indian shawl stuffs. (Plate 6.) These, of course, had drifted into Rome, as
they had long done into the Greek islands, by the Red Sea or by land
through Tyre. Ezekiel (590 B.C.) mentions the Indian trade through Aden.
Theodora’s dress has a deep border of gold, embroidered with classical
warriors pursuing each other with swords.[64] Works enriched with precious
stones and pearls now appear for the first time in European art, and testify
to its Oriental impress.
The Byzantine Christian style was essentially the art of mosaic. Its patterns
for architecture or dress, easily square themselves into little compartments,
suggesting the stitches of “counted” embroideries (“opus pulvinarium”).
In the beginning of the fourth century, when Greek influence was still
languishing, we may date the commencement of ecclesiastical art. It was a
new birth, and had to struggle through an infancy of nearly 800 years,
ignoring, or unconscious of all rules of drawing, colouring, and design.
Outlines filled in with flat surfaces of colours represented again the art of
painting, which had returned to archaic types, and in no way differed from

the essential properties of the art of “acu pingere” or needlework, which
was in the same phase—being, fortunately for it, that to which it was best
suited.
Therefore fine works of art were then executed by the needle, of which a
very few survive, either in description or copied into more lasting materials;
and showing that, with the minor arts of mosaic and illumination, it was in a
state of higher perfection than the greater arts, which till the twelfth century
were all but in abeyance.
In discussing textile art, I am obliged to pass over a part of the dark ages,
and to approach the period when it must be studied chiefly in Sicily, which
became the half-way house on the high road to the East, and later the
resting-place of the Crusaders to and from the Holy Land.
Sicily, which had succeeded to Constantinople as being the great
manufacturing mart during the Middle Ages, was in the hands of the Moors,
the origin and source of all European Gothic textile art. Yet even at Palermo
and Messina this art was long controlled by the traditions of Greece, ancient
and modern, while fertilized by Persian and Indian forms and traditional
symbolisms.
The next European phase was the Gothic.[65] This was Arab and Moresque
steeped in northern ideas; and finding its congenial soil, it grew into the
most splendid, thoughtful, and finished style, far transcending anything that
it had borrowed from eastern or southern sources.
All its traditions were carried out in the smaller decorative arts—mosaics,
ivories, and metal works; and, last and not least, beautiful embroideries, to
adorn the altars and the dresses of monarchs and nobles. (Plate 7.)
When taste was imperfect or declined, then the decorations were all rude,
and the embroideries shared in the general rudeness or poverty; but as these
crafts rose again, adding to themselves grace and beauty by study and
experience, then needlework in England, Germany, France, Italy, and Spain
grew and flourished.[66]

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Italian embroidery XV. Century
Kensington Museum

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Italian orphreys XVI. Century
South Kensington Museum

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Orphreys French and Spanish
XVI. Century

Then came the Reformation, which, in Germany and England especially,
gave a blow to the arts which had reserved their best efforts for the Church;
and the change of style effected by the Renaissance was not suited to the
solemnity of ecclesiastical decoration.
The styles of the fifteenth and sixteenth century embroideries are better
adapted for secular purposes; though their extreme beauty as architectural
ornament in Italy, reconciles one to their want of religious character, on the
principle that it was allowable to dedicate to the Church all that in its day
was brightest and best. (Plate 8.)

We possess much domestic embroidery of the Renaissance which is
exceedingly beautiful—Italian, Spanish, and German. English needlework
had lost its prestige from the time of the Reformation.[67]
The best efforts of the German schools of embroidery preceded the
Reformation, while those of Belgium never lost their excellence,[68] and
still hold their high position among the workers of golden orphreys. In Italy
they always retained much of the classical element. Probably the ancient
frescoes which served as models were originally painted by Greek artists
and their Roman imitators. This style flourished for a hundred years. The
French adopted and modified it.
The decorative style of that period is sometimes called the Arabesque, and
sometimes the Grotesque. The fashion was really copied from the excavated
palaces and tombs of the best Roman era. Raphael admired, and caused his
pupils to imitate and copy them; and they influenced all decorative art for a
considerable period. As long as beautiful forms of flowers, fruit, birds, and
animals were adhered to, the Arabesque was a charming decoration, gay
and brilliant; but when the beautiful was set aside, and the ugly ideas were
reproduced, the style became the Grotesque, which word only means the
grotto, cave, or tomb style, and is as undescriptive to us as the word
Arabesque, which has nothing to do with the Arabs or their arts.
It would appear that if the beautiful only is permissible in decorative art,
and that if without beauty there is no reason that it should exist at all, then
the Grotesque should not be allowed, except as a scherzo of the pencil; to
be relegated, like all other caricatures, to the portfolio.
A grotesque is something startling, laughable, perhaps ridiculous. A woman
with the head of a goose and a flowery tail may be a symbolical, but it
never can be an agreeable object. When the idea conveyed is a great one,
then it is excusable. The Ninevite bull, with a human head and five legs, is a
grotesque, but it is also a symbol of majesty and might. A Satyr is a
grotesque, but he has been so long recorded and accepted that he has ceased
to surprise us; and the Greeks spent so much genius in making him a
graceful creature, that he has become picturesque, if not beautiful.
Arabesques and Grotesques have now so long prevailed in decoration, that
we have ceased to criticize them on principle, and accept them gratefully, in

proportion to the gay fancy and reticent genius of the designer. Most
Arabesques are, in fact, only graceful nonsense.

Pl. 9.

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Spanish Coverlet, from Goa. Velvet and gold, Plâteresque style,
seventeenth century.

Vitruvius (writing first century B.C.) says, that “in his time, on the covering
of the walls were painted rather monstrosities than images of known things.
Thus, instead of columns you will see reeds with crisp foliage, and
candlesticks supporting temples; and on the top of these there are rods and
twisted ornaments, and in the volutes senseless little figures sitting there;
likewise flowers with figures growing out of their calyxes. Here a human

head, there an animal’s.”[69] Evidently Vitruvius did not approve of
grotesques, and his contemporary criticism is most valuable and amusing.
In the Louis Quatorze period, a species of vegetable grotesque was the
fashion, from which we suffer even now, and it deserves censure. Leaves
and flowers of different plants were made to grow from the same stem, as
only artificial flowers could do. The Greeks introduced into their
decorations sprays and wreaths of bay, olive, oak, ivy, and vine, with their
fruits; which are exquisitely composed and carefully studied from nature. It
is true that they sometimes invented flowers of different shapes, following
each other on the same stem, and untrammelled by any natural laws. These
classical freaks of fancy are so graceful that their want of truth does not
shock us, but they are more safely copied than imitated.
The Renaissance was particularly marked in Spain and Portugal by the
embroideries which the latter drew from their Indian possessions in Goa,
whilst we in England were sedulously thrusting from our shores any
beautiful Indian textiles that we imagined could injure our own home
manufactures. It was, consequently, the worst phase of needlework with us,
while Spanish and Portuguese embroideries of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries are especially fine, their designs being European, and
their needlework Oriental. Their Renaissance, which went by the name of
the Plâteresque, is a style apart. (Pl. 9.) The reason of its name is that it
seems to have been originally intended for, and is best suited to, the shapes
and decorations of gold and silver plate. It is extremely rich and ornate; not
so appropriate to architecture as to the smaller arts, and wanting, perhaps,
the simplicity which gives dignity. The style called Louis Quatorze
following on the Renaissance in Germany, England, Spain, Italy, and
France, assumed in each of these countries distinguishing characteristics,
into which we have not time to enter now. In this style France took the lead
and appropriated it, and rightly named it after the magnificent monarch who
fostered it. This was a splendid era; and its furniture and wall decorations,
dress, plate, and books shine in all the fertile richness and grace of French
artistic ingenuity.[70] The new style asserted itself everywhere, and
remodelled every art; but the long reign of Louis Quatorze gave the fashion
time to wane and change. Under Louis XV. the defects increased and the
beauties diminished. The fine heavy borders were broken up into
fragmentary forms; all flow and strength were eliminated; and what

remained of the Louis Quatorze style became, under its next phase, only
remarkable for the sparkling prettiness which is inherent in all French art.
In Italy this very ornate style was distinguished as the “Sette-cento,” and
was a chastened imitation or appropriation of the Spanish Plâteresque and
the French Louis Quatorze. In Germany it was a decided heavy copy of
both, of which there are splendid examples in the adornment of the German
palaces, royal and episcopal. In England the Continental taste was faintly
reflected during the reign of Queen Anne and the first Georges; but except
in the characteristic upholstery of the Chippendales, and one or two palaces,
such as Blenheim and Castle Howard, we did not produce much that was
original in the style of that day.
Under Louis XV., Boucher and Watteau, in France, produced designs that
were well suited to tapestries and embroideries. All the heathen gods, with
Cupids, garlands, floating ribbons, crowns, and cyphers were everywhere
carved, gilded, and worked. It was the visible tide of the frivolity in which
poor Marie Antoinette was drowned; though before the Revolution she had
somewhat simplified the forms of decoration, and straight lines instead of
curves, and delicacy rather than splendour, had superseded, at least at court,
the extravagant richness of palatial furniture.
This was followed by the Revolution; and then came the attempt at classical
severity (so contrary to the French nature) which the Republic affected.[71]
Dress was adorned with embroidered spots and Etruscan borders, and the
ladies wore diadems, and tried to be as like as possible to the Greek women
painted in fictile art. Napoleon attempted a dress which was supposed to be
Roman at his coronation. Trophies were woven and embroidered, and the
“honeysuckle,” “key,” and “egg and anchor” patterns were everywhere.
With the fall of the Empire the classical taste collapsed, and the Egyptian,
Greek, and Roman furniture were handed over to hotels and lodging-
houses. In most of the palaces on the Continent an apartment is still to be
seen, furnished in this style. It was the necessary tribute of flattery to the
great conqueror, who in that character inhabited so many of them for a short
time. But there was no sign of the style being taken up enthusiastically
anywhere out of France.

After the fall of the Empire, all pretence of style was in abeyance, and it
was then gradually replaced by a general craving for the “antique,” the
“rococo,” and finally the “baroc,” as the outcome of that part of a
gentleman’s education called the “grand tour.” Every one bought up old
furniture; Italy and Spain were ransacked; and foreign works of all ages
were added to the hereditary house furnishings. Every wealthy home
became a museum. Now the numerous exhibitions of the last few years,
bringing together the works of all Europe and other continents, have
enabled us to continue to collect and compare and furnish, without any
reference to a particular style.
Meantime “Young England” had become æsthetic. Bohemianism was the
fashion, and the studio had to be furnished as a picturesque lounge:—
ragged tapestries for backgrounds; antique chairs and bits of colour as
cushions and draperies; shiny earthenware pots to hold a flower and to
catch a high light. All these bridged the space between the new æstheticism
and the old family museums; and from their combination arose the style
called by courtesy the “Queen Anne”—a style which can be brought within
the reach of the most moderate fortunes. In humble mansions you will be
aware of the grouping of the old pieces of furniture, culminating perhaps in
“my grandmother’s cabinet,” and her portrait by Hogarth; or “my great-
grandfather’s sword and pistols, which he carried at Culloden;” and his
father’s clock, a relic perhaps of the Scotch Dutch.
The English style of to-day is really a conglomerate of the preceding two
hundred years, and it is formed from the débris of our family life. It belongs
mostly to the period of the pigtail; but it stretches back, and includes all that
followed the Protectorate, and is therefore coeval with the wig. The name of
“Queen Anne” would really do as well as any other, only that the style of
her reign, which was heavy Louis Quatorze, is looked upon with suspicion,
and never admitted for imitation. The “Nineteenth Century” would be a
better name, for it has formed itself only within the last thirty years, in the
very heart of the century, and is, in fact, a fortunate result of preceding
conditions. It owes its existence, as I have said, partly to the archæological
tendencies of the day.
The maimed tables and chairs, which had painfully ascended from saloon to
bedroom, nursery, and attic, till they reposed in the garret (the Bedlam of

crazy furniture), now have descended in all the prestige of antiquarian and
family interest. Their history is recorded; the old embroideries are restored,
named, and honoured. What is not beautiful, is credited with being
“quaint”—the “quaint” is more easily imitated than the beautiful; and we
have elected this for the characteristic of our new decorations. To be quaint,
is really to be funny without intending it, and its claim to prettiness is its
naïveté, which is sometimes touching as well as amusing: this was the
special characteristic of the revival in the Middle Ages. To imitate
quaintness must be a mistake in art; as in life it is absurd to imitate
innocence.
The nineteenth century “Queen Anne” has its merits. [72] It combines
simplicity, roominess and comfort, colour, light and shade. Soft colouring to
harmonize the new furniture with the tender tints of the faded quaintnesses
just restored to society; care in grouping even the commonest objects, so as
to give pleasure to the eye; a revived taste for embroidered instead of
woven materials, giving scope to the talents of the women of the house;—
all these are so much gained in every-day domestic decoration. The poorest
and most trivial arrangements are striving to attain to a something artistic
and agreeable. This is still confined to the educated classes; but as good and
bad alike have to begin on the surface, and gradually filter through to the
dregs of society, we may hope that the women who wore the last chignon
and the last crinoline may yet solace their sordid lives in flowing or tight
woollen garments, adorned with their own needlework; and that the dark-
stained floor of the cottage or humble lodging will set off the shining brass
kettle, and the flower in a brown or blue pot, consciously selected with a
view to the picturesque, and enjoyed accordingly.
From what we know, it would seem that a vital change in a national style is
never produced by the inspiration of one individual genius or great original
inventor. It invariably evolves itself slowly, by the patient, persistent efforts
of generations, polishing and touching up the same motive, and at last
reaching human perfection.
The annihilation of a style is oftenest caused by war passing over the land,
or revolution breaking up the fountains of social life, and swamping the art
and the artist.

But another cause of such an extinction—perhaps the saddest—is that
having reached perfection as far as it may, it deteriorates, sickens, corrupts,
and finally is thrown aside—superseded, hidden, and overlapped by a
newer fashion; and the worst and latest effort discredits in the eyes of men,
the splendid successes that preceded its fall. Though the next succeeding
phase may be less worthy to live than the last, yet, carrying with it the
freshness of a new spring, it is acceptable for the time being.
The moral I should draw from this is, that you cannot force style; you may
prune, direct, and polish it, but you must accept that of your day, and only
in accordance with that taste can your work be useful. Not accepting it idly
or wearily, but cheerfully, on principle, seeking to raise it; refusing by word
or deed to truckle to the false, the base, or the lawless in your art, or to act
against the acknowledged canons of good taste. Not for a moment should
ambition be checked, but it should always be accompanied by the grace of
modesty.
To the young decorator or artist who feels the glow of original design
prompting him to reject old lines, and follow his own new and perhaps
crude ideas, a few words of warning, and encouragement also, may be of
use.
In art, as in poetry, we may recognize the Psalmist’s experience: “My heart
burned within me, and at the last I spake with my tongue.”
In small as in great things, crude ideas should not be brought to the front.
No one should give his thoughts to the world till his heart has burned within
him, and he has been forced to express himself.
Another wise saying, “Read yourself full, and then write yourself empty,”
also applies to art. Knowledge must first be accumulated before you can
originate.
Wait till your experience and your thoughts insist on expression; then
subject the expressed idea to cultivated criticism, and profit by the opinion
you would respect if another’s work, and not your own, were under
discussion.
It is true that taste is surprisingly various. Some will dislike your design,
because its style is a reflection of the Gothic; another may be objected to as

being frivolously Oriental-looking and brilliant, whereas the critic likes
only the sober and the dull. Few are sufficiently educated to appreciate
style: and we cannot rule our own by anybody’s opinion; but we can
generalize and find something that shall be agreeable to all—something
approaching to a golden mean. The artist for decoration should be
sensitively alive to any suggestion from the style of that which he is to
adorn, remembering the antecedent motives of its form, its history, and its
date. He should try to make his new work harmonize with the old; but of
one thing he may be certain—unless he absolutely copies an old design, his
own will carry the visible and unmistakable stamp of his day.
Even while suggesting copies this difficulty arises—how can a perfect
facsimile be obtained? No reproduction is ever really exact, unless cast off
by the hundred, stamped or printed by a machine.
It has been said that the translator of a poem adds to, or takes from the
original, that which he has or has not of the same poetical power; and in art
the copy requires the same qualities to guide the hand that transmits the
original motive to another material. An artist usually carries out his own
ideas from the first sketch blocked out on the canvas, or scribbled on the bit
of waste paper, to the last finishing touch. It is, as far as it can be in human
art, the visible transcript of his own thought. In needlework this can hardly
ever be. The designer, whether he be St. Dunstan, Pollaiolo, Torrigiano, or
Walter Crane, only executes a drawing which leaves his hands for good, and
is translated into embroidery by the patient needlewoman who simply fills
in an outline, ignorant of art, unappreciative of its subtleties, and incapable
of giving life and expression, even when she is aware that they are indicated
in the original design. This is almost always the case; but there are
exceptions. Charlemagne’s dalmatic, for instance, shows signs of having
been either the work of the artist himself, or else carried out under his
immediate supervision.

FOOTNOTES:
[15] Boyd Dawkins’ “Early Man in Britain,” p. 285. See also chapter on stitches
(post), p. 195.

[16] Some of these styles survive; some are still perceptible as traditions or
echoes; some have totally disappeared in our modern art, such as the Primitive
or the Egyptian.
[17] See Semper, “Der Stil.”
[18] The history of Gaul begins in the 7th, and that of Britain in the 1st century
B.C., while the civilization of Egypt dates back to more than 4000 B.C.;
therefore the historical overlap is very great. It is probable that a large portion of
Europe was in its neolithic age, while the scribes were composing their records
of war and commerce in the great cities on the Nile, and that the neolithic
civilization lingered in remote regions while the voice of Pericles was heard in
Athens, and the name of Hannibal was a terror in Italy.—See Boyd Dawkins’
“Early Man in Britain,” p. 481.
[19] See chapter on patterns.
[20] In the Troad.
[21] Some of the Egyptian arts we know are pre-Homeric (if Homer really sang
800 B.C.), and Asiatic art was then in its highest development.
[22] See chapter on stitches, cut work (post). This funeral tent is a monumental
work, inasmuch as the inscription inwrought on it gives us the name and title of
her in whose honour it was made, and whose remains it covered. See Villiers
Stewart’s “Funeral Tent of an Egyptian Queen.”
[23] Herodotus, book ii. c. 182; book iii. c. 47 (Rawlinson’s Trans.). See Rock’s
Introduction, p. xiv.
[24] Homer mentions “Sidonian stuffs and Phœnician skill” (Iliad, v. 170); also
“Sidonian Embroidery.” Ibid. vi. 287-295.
[25] The Assyrian designs are such as are now still worked at Benares, and being
full of animals, they are called Shikurgah, or “happy hunting-grounds.” See Sir
G. Birdwood’s “Industrial Arts of India,” p. 236. See also Plate 4.
[26] See Perrot and Chipiez (pp. 737-757); also Clermont Ganneau’s Histoire de
l’Art, “L’Imagerie Phénicienne,” Plate 1, pt. 1. Coupe de Palestrina. He says that
certain scenes from the “Shield of Achilles” are literally to be found on
Phœnician vases that have come down to us—vases of which Homer himself
must have seen some of analogous design.
[27] Homer speaks of Sidonian embroideries, “Iliad,” vi., 287-295.
[28] See Egyptian fragments in the British Museum, and the specimens of
Peruvian textiles; and Reiss and Stübel’s “Necropolis of Ancon in Peru.”
[29] At Cervetri, Dennis’ “Etruria,” ed. 1878, i. p. 268.
[30] The restless activity of the Phœnicians has often helped to confuse our
æsthetic knowledge, and has caused the waste of much speculation in
ascertaining how certain objects of luxury, belonging to distant civilizations, can
possibly have arrived at the places where we find them.

[31] “The Beautiful Gate of the Temple was covered all over with gold. It had
also golden vines above it, from which hung clusters of grapes as tall as a man’s
height.... It had golden doors of 55 cubits altitude, and 16 in breadth: but before
these doors there was a veil of equal largeness with the doors. It was a
Babylonian curtain of blue, fine linen, and scarlet and purple; of an admixture
that was truly wonderful. Nor was the mixture without its mystical
interpretation; but was a kind of image of the universe. For by the scarlet was to
be enigmatically signified fire; by the fine flax, the earth; by the blue, the air,
and by the purple, the sea;—two of them having their colours for the foundation
of this resemblance; but the fine flax and the purple have their own origin for
this foundation, the earth producing the one, and the sea the other. This curtain
had also embroidered upon it all that was mystical in the heavens excepting the
twelve signs of the zodiac, representing living creatures.” Josephus (Trans. by
Whiston), p. 895.
[32] See also M. E. Harkness and Stuart Poole, “Assyrian Life and History,” p.
66.
[33] The visions of Ezekiel and St. John remind us of the composite figures and
animals in Ninevite sculptures, and the prophetic poetry helps us to interpret
their symbolism.
[34] G. Smith’s “Ancient History of the Monuments,” Babylonia, p. 33. Edited
by Sayce.
[35] In the British Museum. See “Bronze Ornaments of Palace Gates, Balawat,”
pl. E 5.
[36] See Auberville’s “Ornement des Tissus,” pl. 1.
[37] The Egyptian queen in question was mother-in-law to Shishak, whose
daughter married Solomon. After his son-in-law’s death, Shishak plundered the
“King’s House,” and carried to Egypt the golden shields or panels (1 Kings xiv.
26). The golden vessels went to Babylon later, and the golden candlesticks to
Rome.
[38] Sir G. Birdwood repeatedly points out that the Vedic was the art that
worshipped and served nature. The Puranic is the ideal and distorted. The
Moguls, about 700 B.C., introduced their ugly Dravidian art. Through the
Sassanian art of Persia, that of India was influenced. Possibly the very forms
which in India are copied from Assyrian temples and palaces, may have travelled
first to Assyria upon Indian stuffs and jewellery (Sir G. Birdwood’s “Industrial
Arts of India,” i. p. 236).
[39] Ibid., p. 130 (ed. 1884).
[40] Nearchus (Strabo, XV. i. 67) says that the people of India had such a genius
for imitation that they counterfeited sponges, which they saw used by the
Macedonians, and produced perfect imitations of the real object. See Sir G.
Birdwood’s “Industrial Arts of India,” ii. p. 133 (ed. 1884).
[41] Ibid., ii. p. 131 (ed. 1884).

[42] See Sir G. Birdwood, p. 129 (ed. 1884). If Fergusson is right in suggesting
that the art of Central America was planted there in the third or fourth century of
our era, it would, perhaps, appear to have taken refuge in America when it was
driven out of India by the Sassanians, and was really Dravidian. He gives to the
Turanian races all the mound buildings, as well as the fylfot or mystic cross, and
he looks in Central India for the discovery of some remains that will give us the
secret of the origin of the Indo-Aryan style. He thinks the Archaic Dravidian is
allied with the Chinese. See Fergusson’s “Architecture.”
[43] Etruscan and Indian golden ornaments, including the “Bolla” and the
“Trichinopoly” chains and coral, are to be found throughout Scandinavia and in
Ireland. See “Atlas de l’Archéologie du Nord,” par la Société Royale des
Antiquaires du Nord. Copenhagen, 1857.
[44] Arrian tells us of the Celts, “a people near the Great Ionian Bay,” who sent
an embassy to Alexander before the battle of the Granicus—“a people strong and
of a haughty spirit.” Alexander asked them if they feared anything. They
answered that they feared the “sky might fall upon their heads.” He dismissed
them, observing that the Celts were an arrogant nation (Arrian, i. 4, 10).
[45] According to Yates, the merchandise of Eastern Asia passed through
Slavonia to the north of Europe in the Middle Ages, without the intervention of
Greece or Italy. This may account for certain terms of nomenclature which
evidently came with goods transported straight to the north. Yates’ “Textrinum
Antiquorum,” vol. i. p. 225-246.
[46] These northern ideas, spreading over Germany, England, and France,
flourished especially on German soil; and Oriental-patterned embroideries for
hangings and dress were worked in every stitch, on every material, as may be
seen in the museums and printed catalogues of Vienna, Berlin, Munich, &c.
[47] Except, perhaps, the Serpent and Tree cope in Bock’s Kleinodien.
[48] The different Celtic nationalities are always recognizable. There was found
in a grave-mound at Hof, in Norway, a brooch, showing at a glance that it was
Christian and Celtic, though taken from the grave of a pagan Viking. Another at
Berdal, in Norway, was at once recognized by M. Lorange as being undoubtedly
Irish. There are many other instances of evident Celtic Christian art found on the
west coast of Norway under similar conditions—probably spoil from the British
Islands, which were subject to the descents of the pagan Vikings for centuries
after the time of St. Columba’s preaching of Christianity in Scotland. For
information on the subject, see G. Stephen’s “Monuments of Runic Art,” and F.
Anderson’s “Pagan Art in Scotland.”
[49] “Scotland in Pagan Times,” by J. Anderson, pp. 3-7.
[50] On a vase in the British Museum, Minerva appears with her ægis on her
breast, and clothed in a petticoat and upper tunic worked in sprays, and a border
of kneeling lions. On another Panathenaic vase she has a gown bordered with
fighting men, evidently the sacred peplos. (Fig. 4.)
[51] See the account of the veil of Herè in the Iliad, and that of the mantle of
Ulysses in the Odyssey.

[52] See Butcher and Lang’s Odyssey.
[53] “Der Stil.”
[54] The Greeks collected into one focus all that they found of beauty in art from
many distant sources—Egyptian, Indian, Assyrian—and thus fired their inborn
genius, which thenceforth radiated its splendour over the whole civilized world.
[55] Homer’s Iliad, xviii. 480-617 (Butcher and Lang).
[56] See “Woltmann and Woermann.” Trans. Sidney Colvin, p. 64.
[57] Except, perhaps, the keystone arch.
[58] Virg. Æneid iii. Trans. G.L.G.
[59] The Indian Cush.
[60] Except in the art of the Celts, whose Indo-Chinese style shows evidence of
Mongolian importation, and later we find traces of a similar influence: for
instance, “Yarkand rugs are semi-Chinese, semi-Tartar, resembling also the
works of India and Persia. It is easy to distinguish from what source each comes,
as one perceives the influence of the neighbouring native art” (“On Japan,” by
Dresser, p. 322).
[61] See a paper by M. Terrien de la Couperie in the Journal of the Society of
Arts, 1881.
[62] “Rome had to be overthrown that the new religion and the new civilization
might be established. Christianity did its work in winning to it those Teutonic
conquerors, but how vast was the cost to the world, occasioned by the necessity
of casting into the boiling cauldron of barbarous warfare, that noble civilization
and the treasures which Rome had gathered in the spoil of a conquered universe!
Had any old Roman, or Christian father been gifted with Jeremiah’s prescience,
he might have seen the fire blazing amidst the forests of Germany, and the
cauldron settling down with its mouth turned towards the south, and would have
uttered his lamentation in plaintive tones, such as Jeremiah’s, and in the same
melancholy key” (“Holy Bible,” with Commentary by Canon Cook, Introduction
to Jeremiah, vol. i. p. 319).
[63] Scandinavian art became strongly tinctured with that of Byzantium. The
Varangian Guards were, probably, answerable for this, by their intercourse
between Greece and their native land, which lasted so many centuries. There
have come down to us, as witnesses of this intercourse, many coins and much
jewellery, in which all that is Oriental in its style has been leavened by its
passage through Byzantine and Romanesque channels. Gibbon, writing of this
period, says: “The habits of pilgrimage and piracy had approximated the
countries of the earth” (see Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall,” chap. lv.).
Greek embroidered patterns and Greek forms of dress still linger in Iceland.
There was lately brought to England a bride’s dress, which might have belonged
to the Greek wife of a Varangian guardsman. It is embroidered with a border in
gold of the classical honeysuckle pattern; and the bridal wreath of gilt metal

flowers might, from its style, be supposed to have been taken from a Greek
tomb.
[64] Evidently an imitation of the peplos of Minerva (see fig. 4, p. 32).
[65] The descent from the Persian of Arab or Moorish art, as we generally call it
when speaking of its Spanish development, is to be accounted for by the
presence of a considerable colony of Persians in Spain in the time of the Moors,
as attested by numerous documents still in existence. See Col. Murdoch Smith’s
“Preface to Persian Art,” Series of Art Handbooks of the Kensington Museum.
[66] Ronsard, poet, politician, and diplomatist, compares the Queen of Navarre
to Pallas Athene:—

“Elle adonnait son courage
A mainte bel ouvrage
Dessus la toile, et encor
A joindre la soie et l’or.
Vous d’un pareil exercise
Mariez par artifice
Dessus la toile en mainte traits
L’or et la soie en pourtraict.”

[67] Mary de Medici brought back with her from Italy Federigo Vinciolo as her
designer for embroideries.
[68] See “Art Needlework,” by E. Maxse, and “Manuel de la Broderie,” by
Madame E. F. Celnart.
[69] From the Italian translation by Signor Minghetti.
[70] Gaston, Duke of Orleans (died 1660), kept hothouses on purpose to supply
models for floral textile designs. Le Brun often drew the embroideries for the
hangings in rooms he had himself designed and decorated.
[71] We have all seen the dining-room wine-coolers modelled in imitation of
Roman tombs; and there is a drawing-room in a splendid mansion still furnished
with cinerary urns covering the walls, while curule chairs most uncomfortably
furnish the seats.
[72] In his designs for papers and textiles, Mr. Morris’ poetical and artistic
feeling—his admiration and sensitiveness for all that is beautiful and graceful (as
well as quaint)—his respect for precedent, added to his own fanciful originality,
—have given a colour and seal to the whole decorative art of England of to-day.
It is a step towards a new school. The sobriety and tenderness of his colouring
gives a sense of harmony, and reconciles us to his repetitions of large vegetable
forms, which remind us sometimes of a kitchen-garden in a tornado. For
domestic decoration we should, as far as possible, adhere to reposing forms and
colours. Our flowers should lie in their allotted spaces, quiet and undisturbed by
elemental struggles, which have no business in our windowed and glass-
protected rooms.

CHAPTER II.
DESIGN.

Gorgo. Behold these ’broideries! Finer saw
you never.

Praxinoè. Ye gods! What artists work’d these
pictures in?
What kind of painter could these clear lines
limn?
How true they stand! nay, lifelike, moving ever;
Not worked—created! Woman, thou art clever!

(Scene at a Festival)
Theocritus, Idyll
xv. line 78.

The word design, as applied to needlework, includes the principles and laws
of the art: the motives and their hereditary outcome; the art creating the
principles; the laws controlling the art.
Design means intention, motive, and should as such be applied to the
smallest as to the greatest efforts of art. That which results from it, either as
picture or pattern, is a record of the thoughts which produced it, and by its
style fixes the date, of its production.
I will first consider the principles of design, and afterwards, in another
chapter, inquire into the origin of patterns; investigating their motives, and
using them as examples, and also as warnings.
The individual genius of the artist works first in design, though his work is
for the use of the craftsman or artisan, his collaborator; for the two, head
and hands, must work together, or else will render each other inoperative or
ineffective.

The artisan, by right of his title, claims a part in the art itself; the craftsman,
by his name, points out that he, too, has to work out the craft, the mystery,
the inner meaning, of the design or intention.
The designer himself is subject to the prejudices called the taste of his day.
He is necessarily under the influence which that taste has imposed upon
him, and from which no spontaneous efforts of genius can entirely
emancipate him. Whether he is conceiving a temple for the worship of a
national faith, or the edging for the robe of a fair votaress, or the pattern on
the border of a cup of gold or brass, he cannot avoid the force of tradition
and of custom, which comes from afar, weighted with the power of long
descent, and which crushes individuality, unless it is of the most robust
nature.
Of very early design we have most curious and mysterious glimpses. The
cave man was an artist. The few scratches on a bone, cleverly showing the
forms of a dog or a stag, a whale or a seal, nay, the figure of a man, have
enabled us to ascertain and to classify the Palæolithic cave man; from
whom his less civilized successor, the Neolithic man, may be distinguished
by his absence of all animal design.[73]
These fragmentary scraps of information, pieced together only in these later
years, teach us the value of very small facts which time and care are now
accumulating, and which, being the remains of lives and nations passed
away, still serve as the soil in which history can be fertilized.
We have no means of judging whether the cave man was an artist on a
greater or more advanced scale than is actually shown by the bone-
scratchings; the only other relic of his handiwork is the needle.[74]
It is evident that a direct imitation of nature, such as is seen in these
“graffiti,” and at an immense distance in advance of them, in the earliest
known Egyptian sculptures, preceded all conventional art. Some of the
earliest portrait statues in the Museum at Boulac exhibit a high degree of
naturalistic design before it became subservient to the expression of the
faith of the people. As soon as art was found to be the fittest conveyance of
symbolism, it became the consecrated medium for transmitting language,
thought, and history, and was reduced to forms in which it was contented to
remain petrified for many centuries, entirely foregoing the study or

imitation of nature.[75] It recorded customs, historical events, and religious
beliefs; receiving from the last the impress of the unchangeable and the
absolute, which it gave to the other subjects on which it touched. It ceased
to be a creative art (if it had ever aspired to such a function), and was never
the embodiment of individual thought. This phase prevailed under different
manifestations in Assyria and China. Pictorial art had, in fact, become
merely the nursing mother of the alphabet, guiding its first steps—the
hieroglyphic delineation or expression of thoughts and facts.[76]
In Egypt, the change from the first period of actual imitation of nature was
succeeded by many centuries of the very slowest progress. Renouf speaks,
[77] however, of “the astonishing identity that is visible through all the
periods of Egyptian art” (for you could never mistake anything Egyptian for
the produce of any other country). “This identity and slow movement,” he
says, “are not inconsistent with an immense amount of change, which must
exist if there is any real life.” In fact, there were periods of relative
progress, repose, and decay, and every age had its peculiar character. Birch,
Lepsius, or Marriette could at once tell you the age of a statue, inscription,
or manuscript, by the characteristic signs which actually fix[78] the date.
Design, unconsciously has a slowly altering and persistently onward
movement, which but seldom repeats itself. It is one of the most remarkable
instances of evolution. But it also has its cataclysms (however we may
account for them), of which the Greek apotheosis of all art is a shining
example, and the total disappearance of classical influence in Europe before
the Renaissance is another.
I will instance one prevailing habit of Egyptian art.[79] In the long
processional subjects, and in individual separate figures, it was usual to
draw the head in perfect profile, the body facing you, but not completely—a
sort of compromise with a three-quarter view of it—and the feet following
each other, on the same line as the profile. This mode of representing the
human figure was only effaced gradually by the introduction of Greek art,
and continued to be the conventional and decorative method even in the
latest days of Egyptian art; and it is curious to observe, that in the Dark ages
European design fell into the same habit. We cannot imagine that this
distorted way of drawing the human figure could have any intentional
meaning, and therefore may simply believe that it had become a custom;

and that when art has so stiffened and consolidated itself by precedent and
long tradition, as in Egypt and in India, certain errors as well as certain
truths become, as it were, ingrained into it. Plato remarked of Egyptian art,
that “the pictures and statues they made ten thousand years ago were in no
particular better than those they make now.”[80]
One day, however, the Greek broke away from the ancient bonds of custom.
The body was made to accompany the head, and the feet followed suit. But
the strange fact remains that for several thousand years men walked in
profile, all out of drawing. Evidently originality was not in much estimation
among the Egyptian patrons of art. Design seemed to have restricted itself
to effective adaptations in a few permitted forms in architecture and
painting, and the illumination of the papyrus MSS.
Egyptian elasticity of design found some scope in its domestic
ornamentation, in jewellery and hangings, but especially in its embroideries
for dress. Here much ingenuity was shown, and the patterns on walls and
the ceilings of tombs give us the designs which Semper considers as having
been originally intended for textile purposes. He strains to a point to which
I can hardly follow him, the theory that all decorations were originally
textile (except such as proceeded in China from the lattice-work motive);
though I willingly accept the idea that textile decoration was one of the first
and most active promoters of design.
It is not possible for us to trace systematically the different points at which
Egyptian and Asiatic art touch, but we can see that they were always acting
and reacting on each other in the later centuries before our era, and that
Greece profited by them. The first efforts of both to break through this
chrysalis stage, resulted in the early Greek archaic style. Its strongly
marked, muscular humanity reminds one of all the conflicting impressions
struggling in the conception of the great artist who first embodied them.
They appear to be breaking out from the trammels of Egyptian and Assyrian
styles, which by meeting had engendered life; and Greek art was the child
of their union. Then art, having shaken off symbolism as its only purpose,
and seeking to represent the forms of men, yet possessed by a guiding spirit,
first sought to convey the idea of expression. The worship of humanity,
mingling with that of their gods, produced the Heroic ideal; and all the
attributes of their heroes—majesty, beauty, grace, and passion—had to be

depicted; as well as rage, sorrow, despair, and revenge. These were soon to
be surrounded with all the splendours of the arts of decoration.
Greece had prepared for this outburst of excellence and the perfect science
of art, by collecting the traditions, the symbols, the experience in colouring,
and the knowledge of beautiful forms, human and ideal. All that was needed
for the advent of the man who could design and create types of beauty for
all ages was thus accumulated, and the man came, and his name was
Pheidias. A crowd followed him, all steeped in the same flood of poetry and
art; and for several centuries they filled the world with the sense and
science of beauty. Then the function of the designer—the artist—was
changed and elevated, and he became, through the great days of Greek and
Roman Pagan art, and afterwards through the rise of that of Christianity, the
exponent of all that was poetical and ennobling in the life of man.
But though the Greek artist had broken the chains of prescribed form, he
still adhered to the “motive”—the inner symbolical thought—and strove to
express it as it had never been expressed before.[81] New principles were
evoked, and the artist, while revelling in the “sweetness and light” of
freedom, framed for himself standards of taste and refinement, which he left
as a heritage to all succeeding generations.
I fear that I am repeating a platitude when insisting that freedom in all
design, but especially that employed in decoration, must be kept within
certain boundaries; otherwise it becomes lawless. Rules, like all other
controlling circumstances, are of the greatest service to the artist, as they
suggest what he can do, as well as decide what he ought not to attempt. All
boundaries are highly suggestive; the size of a sheet of paper—the form of a
panel—the colours in the box of pigments—even the touch of the brush
which comes to hand,—all these help to shape the idea to our ends, and
assist us in giving to the original motive the form which is most suitable.
These restrictions are often regarded as impediments by the impatient artist;
whereas he ought to look on them as hints and suggestions, and claim their
assistance, instead of struggling against them. Let us accept the principle
that it is good for each of our efforts at decoration that we are controlled by
the space allotted to its composition. The relative size (small, perhaps, for a
table-cover, but large for that of a book) and the shape to which we are
limited, alter all the conditions of a design. Whether it is square or oblong,

or lengthened into a frieze; whether it must be divided into parts, including
more than one motive, or be grouped round one centre; whether it is to be
repeated more than once within the range of the eye, or whether it is to
disappear into space upwards or horizontally; and whether it is to stand
alone, or be framed with lines or a border,—all these restrictions must
govern the design, or, in its highest phase, the composition.
The composition must consist of supporting lines well balanced, and
“values” filling up the whole surface of the space, which is to contain it,
and beyond which it must not seek to extend. As we have in embroidery no
distances—only a foreground—the design must be placed all on one plane.
The title of “composition” cannot be granted to a bouquet or a bird cast on
one corner of a square of linen, however gracefully it may be drawn. It does
not cover the space allotted to it.
If we carefully study the great and guiding principles that have been
distinctly formulated by some of the Continental authorities on decorative
art, we shall find much help in composing our designs. Nothing is more
interesting than to search for the foundation of the structure which centuries
have helped to raise, and to dig out, as it were, the original plan or thought
of the founder. So it is most instructive to learn the fundamental rules by
which such results are secured.
M. Blanc[82] says of the general laws of ornamentation: “There can be no
nobler satisfaction to the mind, than to be able to unravel what is beyond
measure complicated, to diminish what is apparently immense, and to
reduce to a few clear points what has been till now involved in a haze of
obscurity. Just as the twenty-six letters of the alphabet have been, and
always will be sufficient to form the expression of the words necessary for
all human thought, so certain elements susceptible of combination among
themselves have sufficed, and will suffice, to create ornament, whose
variety may be indefinitely multiplied.”
He reduces ornamental design to five principles, Repetition, Alternation,
Symmetry, Progression, and Confusion.
First, Repetition. “You may act on the mind, through sight, by the same
means as those that will excite physical sensations. A single prick of a pin is
nothing, but a hundred such will be intolerably painful. Repetition produces

pleasurable
sensations, as well as
painful ones.” An
insignificant form
can become
Fig. 5. interesting by
Wave Pattern. repetition, and by the
suggestion which,
singly, it could not
originate. For example, the rolling of the Greek scroll or wave pattern
awakens in us the idea of one object following another. “It also suggests the
waves of the ocean; or the poet may see in it a troop of maidens pursuing
each other in space, not frivolously, but in cadence, as if executing a mystic
dance.” Change the curves into angular forms, as making the key pattern,
and it will no longer flow, but become as severe as the other was graceful.
No principle gives greater pleasure than repetition, and next to it,
alternation.
Variety is here added to the law of
repetition. “There can be repetition
without alternation, but no
alternation without repetition.”
Alternation is, then, a succession of
two objects recurring regularly in Fig. 6.
turn; and the cadence of appearance Key Pattern.
and disappearance gives pleasure to
the senses, whether it be addressed to taste, hearing, or sight. Alternate
rhymes, and even short and long lines, soothe the ear in verse. In form, the
alternations are the more agreeable, the more they differ. Such are, in
architecture, a succession of metopes and triglyphs on a Doric frieze, where
the circle and the straight lines relieve each other.

Fig. 7.
Metopes and Triglyphs.

Symmetry. The correspondence of two parts opposite to each other is
symmetrical. “A living being, man or animal, is composed of two parts,
which appear to have been united down one central line. Without being
identical, if you folded them down the line, they would overlap and
perfectly cover each other. Man is born with the sense of symmetry, to
match his outward form; and he appreciates its existence, and instinctively
feels the want of it. Symmetry is another word for justness of proportion.
The Greeks understood by symmetry, the condition of a body of which the
members have a common measure among themselves. We expect the two
sides of a living being to correspond, and we look for these proportions in
the living body to balance each other, which we do not expect to find in any
other natural object. A large leaf at the end of a slender stem may be as
appropriate, and give as much pleasure, as a small leaf in the same position;
but a huge hand at the end of an arm is not so agreeable to our sense of
symmetry as one of the size and outline which we naturally expect to see.
“The mind of man expects to find, outside of himself and his own
proportions, something which he feels is proportionate and symmetrical; in
fact, he at once detects the want of it. The Japanese, with delicacy and taste,
often substitute for symmetry its corollary—balance. The Chinese or
Japanese vase will often have an appreciable affinity and resemblance to a
Greek one, each preserving a secret balance, even in the extremest
whimsicality of its composition. Proportion is another corollary to
symmetry, if it is not another word for some of its qualities.”

“Progression. In this principle are included long perspectives, pyramidal
forms in architecture, and certain processional compositions.”
“For pyramidal surfaces, such as pediments, a progressive ornament is the
fittest. All the buildings in the East, and in the ancient cities of Central
America, which are raised on pyramids of steps, show the tendency to this
species of effect in giving dignity to the buildings placed on such
platforms.”
“Perspectives are highly attractive specimens of progression, which, when
made use of in the decorations of a theatre, produce delightful illusions.”
M. Blanc quotes Bernardin de St. Pierre, who says: “When the branches of
a plant are disposed in a uniform plan of diminishing size, as in the
pyramidal shape of a pine, there is progression; and if these trees be planted
in long avenues, diminishing in height and colour, as each tree does in
itself, our pleasure is redoubled, because progression here becomes infinite.
It is owing to this feeling of infinity that we take pleasure in looking at
anything that presents progression, such as nurseries in different stages of
growth, the slopes of hills retreating to the horizon at different levels—
interminable perspectives.”
All floral compositions which give the effect or impression of growth may
be included in the progressive principle. A composition which, beginning as
it were with a stem, spreads and floreates equally on each side; thrusting
outwards and upwards, and ending in a topmost twig or bud, is governed by
this principle.
Confusion. Boileau is quoted by M. Blanc as saying, “A fine disorder is
often the effect of art;” and he adds, “But before he said it, nature had
shown it.” Here we must observe that the confusions or disorders of nature
are all subject to certain laws; and it is in adopting this idea, that an artistic
confusion may give us the sense of its being ordered by, and subject to
definite rules. These rules act as the frame affects the picture,
circumscribing its irregularities, and restricting them to a certain area. “The
artist-painter is, in a small space, permitted to employ confusion, because
the art of the cabinet-maker will keep the geometrical effect in view.” When
the Japanese throw their ornaments, apparently without rule, here and there

on the japanned box, they reckon on the square shape being sufficiently
marked to the eye by its shining surface and sharp corners.
The confusion in a Japanese landscape is so beautiful that one appreciates
the innate sense of balance, which modifies the confusion—rules and orders
it.
“In the hands of the designer, confusion is only a method of rendering order
visible in a happy disorder. Here contraries meet and touch.... Admit these
as the principles of all decoration, and you will find that, by following and
combining them, you may produce varieties as numberless as the sands of
the sea, and that a latent equilibrium will reduce nearly every complication
and confusion to perfect harmony.”
Each of the five principles we have discussed has its corollary, which adds
to the resources of the decorative artist. These are as follows:—To
Repetition belongs harmony, or consonance; to Alternation, contrast; to
Symmetry, radiation; to Progression, gradation; to balanced Confusion,
deliberate complication.[83]
Harmonies in form and in colour are produced in different ways—
sometimes by repetition with variation; sometimes by the different parts
being rather reflected on each than repeated. This explains the harmony that
may be called consonance, if I rightly understand M. Blanc’s theory.
Contrast is most generally understood as a common resource in the hands
of the artist for producing strong effects; but M. Blanc cleverly expresses
the reticence needed to ensure contrast being pleasurable, not painful. “To
adorn persons or things,” he says, “is not simply for the purpose of causing
them to be conspicuous; it is that they may be admired. It is not simply to
draw attention to them, but that they may be regarded with feelings of
pleasure.... If contrast be needed, let it be used as the means of rendering the
whole more powerful, brilliant, and striking. For instance, if orange is
intended to predominate in a decoration, let blue be mingled with it, but
sparingly. Let the complementary colour be its auxiliary, and not its rival.”
Contrasts are always unpleasant, if the two forces struggle with each other
for pre-eminence, whether it be in form or in colour. The rule to be
observed in all ornamental design is this: “that contrasting objects, instead

of disturbing unity, should assist it by giving most effect to that we wish to
bring forward and display.”
Radiation belongs to the principle of symmetry, starting from a centre from
which all lines diverge, and to which all lines point. This is to be found
throughout nature, from the rays of the sun to the petals of the daisy. All
decorative art employs and illustrates it.
“Gradation in colour, as in form, is not quite synonymous with progression,
but expresses a series of adroitly managed transitions. The English
intermingle in their decoration, colours very finely blended; nor do they
find any transition too delicate. This, as in all principles of ornament, has to
be employed according to the feelings intended to be produced on the mind
of the spectator—whether for absolute contrast or for imperceptible
progression, when the tenderest colours are needed.”
Complication is illustrated by M. Blanc, by a quotation from “Ziegler.”[84]
“Complication is another aspect of the art which owns the same sentiment
as that expressed by Dædalus in his labyrinth, Solomon in his mysterious
seal, the Greeks in their interlacing and winding ornaments, the Byzantines,
the Moors, and the architects of our cathedrals in their finest works.
Intertwined mosaics, and intersection of arches and ribs, all spring from
complication.”
To follow the interlacing line of an ornament, gives the mind the pleasure of
untying the Gordian knot, without cutting it. It gives the excitement of
curiosity, pursuit, and discovery. “When we see these traceries so skilfully
plaited, in which straight lines and curves intermingle, cross, branch out,
disappear and recur, we experience a high pleasure in unravelling a puzzle
which at first, perhaps, appeared to be undecipherable; and in
acknowledging that a latent arrangement may be recognized in what at first,
and at a distance, seems an inextricable confusion.” The Celtic, Moorish,
and Gothic styles illustrate and are explained by these remarks; and they are
well worthy the attention of the designer.
Having so freely borrowed from M. Blanc’s chapter on the general laws of
ornamentation, I will finish my quotations with the words with which he
concludes: “There is no decoration in the works of nature or the inventions
of men which does not owe its birth to one of the original principles here

enumerated, viz. Repetition, Alternation, Symmetry, Progression, and
Balanced Confusion; or else to one of their secondary causes, consonance,
contrast, radiation, gradation, and complication; or lastly, to a combination
of these different elements, which all finally lose themselves in a primordial
cause—the origin of the movements of the universe—Order.”[85]
The extracts from M. Blanc’s works I have carefully placed between
commas, being most anxious to express my obligation to him for his
carefully formulated epitome of the laws of design. But though I have
largely quoted, there remains still much most interesting and suggestive
matter, which I recommend the reader to seek in his book.
Though we should call to our aid the general laws of design for all art, we
must select from them what is specially appropriate for the needs of our
craft. From the art of needlework we should eliminate as much as possible
all ideas of roundness, all variety of surface and effects of light and shadow
and contrasting colours. Unity, softness, grace, refinement, brightness,
cheerfulness, pleasant suggestions,—these should be the objects in view
when we design the panels for the drawing-room or boudoir, the hangings
for the bed, or the cover for the table—harmony which will satisfy the eye,
thoughts that shall please the mind.
The objects in nature that give us the most unalloyed pleasure—birds and
flowers—are those that from all time have served as the materials for
decorative design, and therefore have been moulded into the traditional
patterns which have descended to us from the earliest times. Design must
follow the scientific laws of art, and shape the variations of traditional
forms from which we cannot escape. In our present search after these inner
truths, I repeat that we have nothing to do with the rules of painting,
sculpture, and architecture, or any other of the secondary arts, such as wood
carving, metal work, &c.; these having each their own intrinsic principles,
which must be worked out as corollaries from the general laws of
composition which govern all Aryan art.[86]
It is curious that in drawing on the flat, in ancient frescoes, there appear to
be no acknowledged rules of perspective—hardly more in Pompeii, than on
early Chinese screens and plates; or than later in the Bayeux tapestries. And
yet the Greeks, with their unerring instinct, actually made use of false

architectural perspectives to add to the effects of height and depth in their
colonnaded buildings.[87] They sensibly diminished the circumference of
the columns, and used other means in their designs for this purpose. They
understood the principle, but they did not carry it into flat decorative art.
They did not attempt, when they painted a landscape on the wall, to do
more than recall the idea they were sketching; and never thought of vying in
scientific or naturalistic imitation with the real landscape they saw through
the window; they did not wish to interfere with the effect of the statue, or
the human figures grouped in front of it, to which the wall served as a
background. Those threw shadows and cast lights; but in the flat there were
no shadows, no perspective—all was flat.[88] We must draw from this the
deduction that the Greeks held that flatness was an essential quality of wall
decoration (except in friezes) as well as of all textile ornament; and for
every reason we must accept this flatness as a general law for designs in
embroidery.
In hangings and dress materials, flatness is more agreeable than a
complicated shaded design, especially when it is further confused by folds,
disturbing and interrupting the flow of the lines of the pattern.
The reader will perceive that the laws of composition for textiles quoted
from M. Blanc, apply perfectly to designs on the flat, and to outlined
sketches in black and white, as well as to the most elaborate compositions
for pictures, either historical or “genre.” They are rules which should be
understood and employed by the man who draws for a wall-paper or an area
railing; and certainly by him who makes patterns for our schools of design.
It may therefore be laid down as a general rule, that all designs for
embroidery should be considered first as outlined drawings, covering a flat
surface, and then filled in with colour. The outlines should as little as
possible overlap one another, as flatness is one of the first objects to be
remembered; and this, of course, will be disturbed by the parts passing over
or under each other. Indian designs in flowers have invariably a wonderful
flatness, in the absence of all light and shadow; joined to a naturalistic
suggestion of detail, which is accounted for by their traditional mode of
copying from nature. The branch or blossom to be copied, is laid on the
ground and pegged down with care, to eliminate every variety of surface,
and every branch and twig so arranged that they may not cross or touch

each other. This conventional composition is then drawn, and every natural
distinction in the form carefully copied. I would suggest that this idea
should be accepted as useful for imitation among ourselves in certain
conventional compositions of vegetable forms. Perhaps it is our Aryan
ancestry that has given us a prevailing taste for such decorations; and it is
worth while to consider how best to manipulate them.[89]
Clinging as we do to these floral designs, we can see that they are the only
ones that bear repetition, whether covering the surface of the material in the
rich irregularity of the flowers in a field, or conventionalized into a form or
a pattern.
The eye is never shocked or fatigued by such repetitions in orderly
confusion, or trained by the hand into artistic shapes or meanderings of
tracery. But when embroidery or weaving attempts to represent animals or
typical human figures, repetition immediately becomes tiresome. A
Madonna surrounded by angels, comes in badly, repeated over and over
again as a pattern, broken up by folds, cut up by a seam, dislocated in the
joining, and repeated in tiers. Such a design is figured in Auberville’s book.
[90] The drawing is beautiful, but by repetition it becomes ridiculous. I
therefore deprecate this kind of ornament in textile work. For this reason
embroidery, which can be fitted to each space that is to be covered, is
preferable to woven designs, however richly or perfectly they may be
carried out.
Another class of design, which must be considered apart, is the
conventional-geometrical, of which the special distinction appears to be that
it consists of echoes or fragments of what we have seen elsewhere. These
conventional patterns are often merely the detritus of past styles or motives
crushed and placed by time in a sort of kaleidoscope. They remind one of
the little wreaths of broken shells and coloured sea-weeds left on the sands
by the retiring waves after a storm, and are sometimes full of beauty and
suggestion. (Pl. 17.) We trace in these fragmentary patterns forgotten links
with different civilizations; and we ponder on the historical events which
have brought them into juxtaposition. These kaleidoscope patterns are to be
seen in Persian and Turkish carpets of the present day, and we find, on
examination, little bits which can only be the remnants of a broken-up

motive, probably as much lost now to the designer who inherits the
traditional form, as to us who can only see the vague results.
I illustrate this remark by giving the border of a modern Persian carpet
which has certainly had Egyptian ancestry. The boat, the beetle, and the
prehistoric cross are to be found in it.

Fig. 8.
Persian Carpet.

Many conventional patterns of to-day are descendants of the lattice-work of
Chinese art, and of the zigzags, lines, and discs of barbarous primitive
ornamentation.
The traceries in Indian stone windows show some of the most charming
geometrical forms, and are akin to the Persian and Russian modes of
composing conventional patterns. They appear on very ancient metal work,
and are the motives of all the embroideries in the Greek islands and the
principalities, and of the linen embroideries of Russia. Their Byzantine
origin gave its impress to the European schools of the Middle Ages, and the

pattern-books of Germany and Venice of the sixteenth century are full of
them. They are best suited for the mosaic stitches, and, kept in their places
as decoration, they are useful for carpets and borders.
It should be impressed on our young artists, that, in composing their
designs, they must be influenced by the materials to be employed, and the
purpose for which the decoration is intended. Thus in textile design for
dress and hangings (excepting for tapestries) the fact must never be lost
sight of that they will be subject to disturbance by crossing folds and
crumplings, which will break up the lines of the pattern. It is therefore
evident that a design fitted for a rigid material in a fixed place, such as an
architectural decoration in wood, stone, or stucco, must be subject to a
treatment different from that which befits an embroidered curtain or panel.
Stone and wood, being materials of uniform colour, require all the help of
recessed shadows and projections to catch the light; whereas in textiles,
form is assisted by colour, and smoothness of surface is a primary
consideration. The strongly accentuated design for wood-carving becomes
poor and lifeless when deprived of its essential conditions and raison d’être,
and the pattern which looks charming, outlined and filled in with colour,
could be hardly seen incised on a flat stone surface. This seems a truism,
but the neglect of these plain axioms causes many mistakes in decorative
art. Mr. Redgrave says: “A design must be bad which applies the same
treatment to different materials.” He further says: “The position of the
ornament requires special consideration. The varied quantities, bolder relief,
and coarser execution are not only allowable, but absolutely necessary, at
heights considerably above the eye. Moreover, each fabric has its own
peculiar lustre, texture, &c. Thus, in the use of hangings, curtains, &c., the
design might be suitable in silk, and coarse or dull in woollen.”[91]
Here I venture to differ from Mr. Redgrave. Perspective is as much to be
respected in decoration as in pictures, near to the eye; and the gradation in
size and colour, as the ornament travels up into height or fades into
distance, is a phase of pleasure which should not be checked by
enlargement of form or reinforcement of colouring.
It is hardly necessary to warn our artists against a sort of design which is
conventional, yet had its own meaning in the beginning. This is to be found

in Indian carvings and embroideries of a certain date, or imitating the works
of that distant period. It proceeded from a hideous worship of monstrous
Dravidian divinities. Their statues are to be found, surrounded by coarsely
designed patterns, in the temple architecture of the first and second
centuries. Its characteristics are idols in niches or shrines, distorted in form
or attitude; foliage of unnatural, twisted plants, added to the recurring of the
lotus and tree of life; or animals destroying each other, or kneeling in
worship to the idols. These ugly designs are purely conventional. Fergusson
suggests that they were introduced into Mexico in the fourth or fifth
centuries A.D. by Buddhism.[92]
Those many-armed, sometimes many-faced divinities drove out the
beautiful Aryan types, which, however, resumed their sway when the wave
of the Renaissance flowed back to India, and was remodelled by Oriental
taste to the lovely designs we find in the Taj Mahal.
In M. Blanc’s classification of ornament, he has placed Gothic design under
the head of deliberate complication. The whole of the Gothic decorations,
which are a gradual growth in one direction, arose from the study of
interlacing boughs and stems, employed as the enrichment of the newly-
grown forms of the vaulted roofs. The possibilities of great size and height
covered these designs and inspired all their decoration; and the effect of
reiteration and long recurring lines in perspective was essentially the motive
of these avenues in stone.[93]
Here enter the principles of repetition and progression, and you will find
how carefully the designers of the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth
centuries worked up to these ideas. You will see in their embroideries,
shining figures or pictures in gold, silver, and coloured silks, shimmering on
dark velvet backgrounds, each design terminating a perspective of
architectural forms which enhances their brilliancy. The most effective,
probably, were generally employed for the adornment of the high altar, so
as to be seen from a great distance. The smaller and less distinct and more
delicate ornaments were reserved for the side chapels or for smaller
churches, where such distant effects were inappropriate. But the motives of
ecclesiastical embroidery will be discussed in a future chapter.

All attempts at pictorial art are a mistake in textiles. It does not enter into
such designs; and when by chance it is allowed to be so used, it is an error
of judgment, and only exhibits a laborious and useless ingenuity. It is no
longer an artistic delineation of a natural object, but becomes an imitation
of another way of rendering such objects.
Mr. Redgrave says that pictorial art in our manufactures is one of our great
mistakes. “The picture must be independent of the material, the thought
alone should govern it; whereas in decoration the material must be one of
the suggestors of the thought, its use must govern the design.”
Perhaps it will appear to my readers that here I repeat, in different forms,
what has been said in a previous chapter on the history of style. I think that
it is better to do so, than to omit to show where style and design must
accompany each other. Style, without any reference to design, would be but
a barren subject; and design, without reference to style, would become
lawless, and soon be lost in the mazes of bad taste and mannerism. Both
subjects are of so large and important a nature that I do not attempt to do
more than point out how, in their history and their influence, they belong to
the craft of embroidery.
Such influences belong to all art; and though I am anxious to confine
myself to only one section of it, I find it difficult to resist the temptation to
generalize and stray from the prescribed path, when large and important
views are opened on every side, as I travel on from point to point.
In sketching the history of design, as well as I may in so short a space, it is
only considered in the light in which it illustrates our craft.
I repeat that the design should be informed by the motive which suggested
it, and by the need which has called it forth; and it must be moulded to the
space it has to fill, and the position it will occupy. The design must be
modified into different outward forms, according to whether it is to be fitted
to the edge of a building against the sky; to a high panelled wall; to be
applied as a frieze, or round the capital of a pillar; to the embroidered cover
of an altar, or the silken hangings of a bed, or the framed flat spaces on the
walls of a saloon. In fact, “intention,” “place,” and “shape” are necessary
motives and limits to a flat design.

Leaving aside all architectural ornamentation, and adhering only to my own
subject, embroidery, I will limit my observations to the three purposes here
suggested. Firstly, as the central effect of the holiest part of a church;
secondly, in the domestic and comfortable room, to be adorned and made
cheerful; and thirdly, as decking the refined and gay saloon or banqueting-
hall.
To the church we should devote the most splendid and effective contrasts,
to blaze unframed against dark empty backgrounds, or amidst stone and
marble decorations; something set apart from its surroundings, and
asserting that separation, is the desirable effect to be attained.
A totally different set of rules come into play when we have to select the
decorations of a bedroom. Here a background does not exist. We are
surrounded by four walls very near to the eye, so that perspectives are a
secondary interest, if indeed they can claim any consideration; severe and
magnificent ornamentation is out of place, except perhaps in that time-
honoured institution—to be found in every great house possessing a suite of
reception-rooms—the State bedroom, where the display of hangings and
embroideries was the first motive of the decoration of the past, clothing and
garnishing the bare spaces on the lofty walls. Space and separateness are
not the object or aim of the bedroom of to-day; but lightness, snugness, and
cheerful comfort, with which the design of the textile ornaments have much
to do. This will in a later chapter come under the head of furniture.
For the saloon we may accept any splendour of rich and costly design, and
the variously shaped panels assist in suggesting the form of the decoration.
The plain or moulded panels, called in Italian “targhe,” or shields, seem to
be descended from the actual shields of gold which Solomon hung on the
walls of the king’s house in the Forest of Lebanon.[94] The motive was
apparently Tyrian, and traces of it are also to be found in Assyrian
sculpture.[95]
The practice of framing the design gives opportunities for change of
materials, colour, and pattern, permitting the employment of different flat
surfaces laid on each other, and scope for endless enrichment; the framed
picture being, perhaps, the central culminating attraction, crowning, as it
were, the textile ornamentation.

I merely give these instances as illustrating the rule that we have more than
once laid down, that a design cannot fitly be employed except in the
position for which the artist has composed it. I will, however, add that
though it is right to give due consideration to the preparation of each work
for its intended use, yet we often have charming suggestions offered to us,
by the chance acquisition of a beautiful artistic specimen, which finds its
own place and accommodates itself to the surrounding colours and forms.
These are the happy accidents of which the cultivated artistic eye takes
advantage, adding them to the experience which may help those who are
seeking for the rules of harmony and contrast in design.
Research into the mysteries and principles of design applies to woven
arabesques and patterns, and must include machine-made textile ornament,
and all decorative needlework. It is, in fact, the fabric for the million which
most especially needs the careful study of guiding rules. When a plant sends
forth hundreds of winged, wind-blown seeds, like the thistle, it spreads
itself over wide fields, and is more mischievous than a more noxious
growth, such as the deadly nightshade, which only drops an occasional
berry into the earth. So a common cheap chintz or carpet, with a poor,
gaudy, motiveless design, carries a bad style into thousands of homes
wherever our commerce extends; disgracing us, while it corrupts the taste
of other nations.
In addressing our young designers, I would remind them that in art the race
is not always to the strong. Prudence and educated powers, thoughtfulness
and study, often carry us where unassisted and uncultivated genius has
signally failed. Even such facilities as are afforded by the acquirement of
freehand drawing, as taught in our schools of art, are not to be despised.
The workman should thoroughly master his tools, or they will hamper him.
The first step towards design is that you should learn to draw. After this,
appreciation and observation are necessary, and due balance in outline and
colour should be studied; and all this is as much needed in drawing a
pattern as in composing a picture. The difference lies in our art being only
decorative, wherein beauty and fitness are to be remembered, and nothing
else; whereas the picture may have to record historical facts, or to inspire
poetical thoughts—to awe or to touch the beholder. A decorative design is
only asked to delight him. Intelligent delight, however, can only be evoked
by intelligent art, and to this, decoration must be subjected.

FOOTNOTES:
[73] The earliest art we know (the bone-scratching) is naturalistic and imitative.
We are unaware of any attempt at a pattern of the prehistoric period. The lake
cities are of so vague a date that their ornaments on pottery are puzzling rather
than instructive. The earliest Hellenic pottery was scratched or painted. Cuttle-
fish, repeated over and over again, are among the earliest attempts at a pattern,
by repetition of a natural object. Naturalism soon fell into symbolism, which
appropriated it and all art, and the upheaval of a new culture was needed to lift it
once more into the region of individual creation. See Boyd Dawkins’ “Early
Man in Britain;” also General Pitt Rivers’s Museum of Prehistoric Art, lately
presented to the University of Oxford.
[74] See Boyd Dawkins’ “Early Man in Britain.”
[75] “I hope, indeed, to enable them” (the members of his class) “to read, above
all, the minds of semi-barbarous nations in the only language by which their
feelings were capable of expression; and those whose temper inclines them to
take a pleasure in mythic symbols, will not probably be induced to quit the
profound fields of investigation which early art will open to them, and which
belong to it alone. For this is a general law, that supposing the intellect of the
workman the same, the more imitatively complete his art, the less he will mean
by it, and the ruder the symbol, the deeper the intention.”—Ruskin’s “Oxford
Lectures on Art,” 1870, p. 19.
[76] See Isaac Taylor’s “History of the Alphabet.”
[77] Renouf’s Hibbert Lectures, 1879, p. 67.
[78] Now there is a point of view in which we may regard the imitative art of all
races, the most civilized as well as the most barbarous—in reference to the
power of correctly representing animal and vegetable forms, such as they exist in
nature. The perfection of such imitation depends not so much on the manual
dexterity of the artist as on his intelligence and comprehension of the type of the
essential qualities of the form he desires to represent. See Ch. T. Newton’s
“Essays on Art and Archæology,” p. 17.
[79] See Wilkinson’s “Ancient Egyptians.”
[80] Plato’s Second Book of Laws, p. 656.
[81] “The religion of the Greeks penetrated into their institutions and daily life.
The myth was not only embodied in the sculptures of Pheidias on the Parthenon,
and portrayed in the paintings of Polygnotus in the Stoa Poikile; it was repeated
in a more compendious and abbreviated form on the fictile vase of the Athenian
household, on the coin circulated in the market-place, on the mirror in which the
Aspasia of the day beheld her charms. Every domestic implement was made the
vehicle of figurative language, or fashioned into a symbol.”—Newton’s “Essays
on Art and Archæology,” p. 23.

[82] “Art in Ornament and Dress,” by M. Charles Blanc, formerly Director of
the French Institute. Eng. Trans., Chapman and Hall, London.
[83] See Charles Blanc’s “Art in Ornament and Dress,” p. 31.
[84] Charles Blanc’s “Art in Ornament and Dress,” p. 43.
[85] Charles Blanc’s “Art in Ornament and Dress,” pp. 43, 45, 46.
[86] Chinese design shows naturalistic art arrested and perpetuated on totally
different principles. Their representations are all equally allied to their art of
picture-painting, whether on china with the brush, or on textiles with the needle.
The flatness of the picture is still preserved by their ignorance of perspective.
When they attempted to express different distances, they did so by placing them
one above another, so that in reading the composition the eye first takes in the
distant horizon; next below it, the middle distance; and being thus prepared, it
comes down to the actual living foreground, on which rests the dramatic action
and interest addressed to the spectator. The Chinese understood many of the
secrets of art, yet never achieved perspective.
[87] See Mr. Penrose’s work on the measurements of the Parthenon at Athens.
Published by the Society of the Dilettanti.
[88] Marked outlines in embroidery add to the flatness, and enable us to omit
cast shadows. In this it differs entirely from pictorial art, where one of the great
objects is to avoid flatness.
[89] Semper’s theory, already mentioned, is that textile design was certainly flat;
that it was the first form of decoration, and was followed by bas-relief, which
could not at once rid itself of the original motive.
[90] Auberville’s “Ornamentation des Tissus” (eleventh century).
[91] Redgrave’s “Manual of Design,” pp. 43-45.
[92] This idolatrous type was introduced into England by the Buccaneers, and
reflected on our carvings and embroideries of the time of James I., slightly
modified by the Italian Renaissance of that period. As this sort of vulgar
ornamentation has once prevailed, let us protect ourselves against its possible
recurrence.
[93] While making this passing allusion to the theory that the origin of all Gothic
decoration is mainly founded on the motive of interlacing stems and foliage, I
wish to guard myself against being supposed in any way to argue against other
beginnings, whenever they can be proved. I have said before that most
decorations have a mixed ancestry. But when I see single or clustered columns
starting from the ground—spreading at the base like the gnarled root, and
growing till they culminate in crowns of foliage, forming symmetrical capitals,
like the first clusters of leaves on a strong young sapling—then the branches
spreading and interlacing, only checked at equal intervals by a lovely leaf or
burgeon, till they meet in blossoms on the highest point of the arch,—I cannot
but adhere to the old idea that rows of trees meeting overhead suggested Gothic
ornament as well as Gothic Architecture. The Spanish or Moresque Gothic was
overloaded with leaves and flowers, and the German Gothic was enriched with

fantastic trees and flowers, each according to its national taste and fashion. A
Gothic tree is a very conventional plant; and generally carries only one leaf on
each branch. I have given a specimen of archaic trees from the Bayeux tapestry.
They are typical of the Gothic botanical idea and style down to the fourteenth
century. (Fig. 13.)
Nor is this interpretation of Gothic design other than a result of its descent from
the Egyptian ancestral motive, where the temple columns represented the single
stem of the lotus with one large blossom for its capital, or else a bundle of stems
of the lotus, palm, and convolvulus flowering together into a beautiful cluster.
Even the gigantic columns of the great hypæthral hall at Karnac are only a
stupendous exaggeration of the same stalk and flower motive. From these were
derived the forms of the early Greek column—soon enriched by substituting the
Acanthus for the Lotus, but often retaining the convolvulus.
[94] 1 Kings x.; Ezek. xxvii. 10, 11. See Stanley’s “Lectures on the Jewish
Church.”
[95] Layard’s “Nineveh and its Remains,” vol. ii. p. 388; Rawlinson’s “Ancient
Monarchies,” vol. ii. p. 2.

CHAPTER III.
PATTERNS.

In the last chapter on design I have described patterns as the examples or
illustrations of the art of decoration, and as being the records of the motives
which produced them in different eras. My present object is to class and
define patterns as decorative art.
It is argued by some archæologists that the recurrence of a pattern, for
instance the “wave,” over the whole world, proves that it really came from
many sources, under the same conditions of life and art; showing also that a
pattern is a thing that, like a flower, must grow, if the culture of the race be
equal. I do not believe this. We can nearly always trace the family history of
a pattern to its original motive; and in the very few cases where we are
unable to do so, it is hardly necessary to cover our ignorance by stretching
the fashionable theory of development over the few instances that are as yet
unaccountable.
I have been repeatedly asked to procure or to invent a new pattern. Such is
my respect for the decorative achievement called a “pattern,” that I cannot
hope for the moment of inspiration in which I might create such a thing. If
any one has in his lifetime invented a pattern, he has done something truly
remarkable, and as rare as is a really original thought on any subject.
Patterns are commonly, like men, the result of many centuries of long
descent from ancestors of remote antiquity.
Individuals differ from their ancestors through inherited and surrounding
conditions, and through the modifying powers of evolution, climate, and
education. So also a pattern has, besides its ancestry and descent, the
unconscious mark or seal of its day; and it is easy to trace whence it comes,
if we set ourselves to examine the style of it seriously.
The patterns of which we can nearly always name at once the nationality,
are the Assyrian, the Chinese, the Egyptian, the Hindu (Aryan and
Turanian), the Persian, the Archaic and the highly developed Grecian; the

Roman, the Celtic, the Byzantine, the Arabian, the Gothic, the Renaissance,
the Spanish Plâteresque, the Louis Quatorze, and those of the art of Central
America.
The pattern cannot exist without design. Design means intention and
motive. Many of the motives in Oriental textile decorations are suggestive
of intention, as is shown by their names. Among Indian patterns we meet
with “ripples of silver,” “sunshine and shade,” “pigeon’s eye,” “peacock’s
neck,” &c.[96]
Patterns must be classed either by their dates, when ascertained, or
according to their style, which must generally be allowed to cover vast
areas and periods irregularly drifting down, overlapping, or being absorbed
or effaced by the circumstances they have encountered.
Only when a national style has been obstinately fixed, as in China, and
bound down by strict laws and religious formulas, suited exactly to the
people for whom they were evolved out of the national life, and imprinted
on it by their own lawgivers, philosophers, and priests; and neither imposed
by conquerors, nor swept over by the waves of a new civilization;—only in
such cases can we find a continuity of decorative art which leads us far
back on its traces. Then, on this long track, we learn how little, man, the
decorating animal, has really advanced in his powers of creation. He has
gone more than once to a certain point, and has then either been petrified by
law and custom—turned into a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife, because he has
looked back instead of striving to advance, or else through poverty or
satiety has fallen into the last stage of the Seven Ages, “sans eyes, sans
teeth—sans everything.” When what is good is neither perceived nor
desired, then the arts, small and great, dwindle and disappear, and nothing
remains to show that they have been, but a name, and perhaps a pattern.
Chinese design is the most striking example of the first of these phases; and
the extinction of all classical art with the fall of Paganism in Rome is an
instance of the second.
In the chapter on style it is said that a pattern is as ineffaceable as a word.
But one will occasionally disappear for a time, till the ruin that covers it is
cleared away, and the lost design recovered and employed simply as a

decoration, if it is beautiful; or perhaps fitted with a new meaning, and so it
makes a fresh start.
The importance of patterns, when traceable to their origin, as a means of
investigating historical influences cannot be too much insisted on, and their
history is full of suggestion as a guide to the decorator. Much has been
argued and much ascertained from the evidence of these fragments of
national civilizations, showing how an idea or a myth has been, as it were,
engrafted into the essence of another national idea, partly altering what it
finds, and changing to fit itself to its new surroundings. Eastern patterns
have travelled far, and lasted long; and continue still to hold the fancy, and
exercise the ingenuity, of the artist and decorator. When we find a pattern of
which the nationality is strongly marked, it is worth our while to ascertain
its date and history, which will help us to recognize cognate design
wherever we may meet it. However, this is often not to be done; and then it
is best to set these puzzling examples aside, and to await patiently the
elucidation, which may come from some source of which we are as yet
ignorant.
In very early art we have little remaining but patterns, on which we may
found theories by tracing them home to their original source. The oldest
patterns had each a meaning and an intention. When a pattern has been
enduring and far spread, it is because it was originally the expression of an
idea or a symbol.
In the earliest dawn of civilization, the arts were the repositories of the
myths and mysteries of national faiths. Embroidery was one of these arts,
and the border which edged the garment of a divinity, the veil which
covered the grave of a loved one, or the flower-buds and fruit which fringed
the hangings and curtains in the sanctuary, each had a meaning, and
therefore a use. These symbolical designs and forms were constantly
reproduced; and all human ingenuity was exercised in reforming,
remodelling, and adding perfect grace to the expression of the same idea.

Patterns may be ranged under four heads—the Primitive, the Naturalistic,
the Conventional, and the Geometrical.
The primitive are those of which we know not the ancestry, and rarely can
guess the motive. To us they are, in general, simply rude decorations. The
naturalistic are those which are borrowed from natural forms, and are either
only imitative, or else convey some hidden meaning. The conventional are
those which, by long descent, have come to be accepted simply as
ornamental art, with or without reference to an original motive, now lost.
The geometrical or symmetrical are founded on form only, and in so far
resemble our experience of the primitive; they express no meaning, and
only serve to satisfy the eye by their balance and their ingenuity.

PRIMITIVE.

The first patterned forms with which we are acquainted are the primitive.
They are found in all parts of the inhabited world. In our present ignorance
as to the beginnings of the scattered tribes of men, we cannot judge if these
are the remains of an earlier art or the first germs of a new one. Of one
thing there is no doubt: this primitive decoration consists entirely of pattern;
that is to say, of the repetition of certain (to us) inexpressive forms, which
by reiteration assume importance and in some degree express beauty—the
beauty of what Monsieur Blanc calls “cadence.”
After these first unintelligible forms, which simply by repetition become
accepted patterns, come those called the Prehistoric, of which we know or
guess something as to their original meaning, and which, having been
reduced from the hieroglyphic-symbolical to the conventional, have thus
crystallized themselves, by constant use, into a pattern. Such, for instance,
is the simplest form of the “wave” pattern, which in very early art was a
representation of water.
The prehistoric water or wave patterns had other forms; for instance,
zigzags, upright or horizontal, and undulating lines which are intelligible as
expressing smooth or rough water. In general, however, the primitive and
prehistoric patterns convey no idea, and consist, as we have said elsewhere,
of lines, straight or wavy, sometimes intersected; of angles, zigzags, groups
of dots, rings and little discs, and crosses of the Swastika shape. (Plate 10.)

Pl. 10.

See larger image

Wave Patterns.
1, 4, 9, 12, 13. Greek Wave
Patterns. 2. Key or
Mæander, Greek Wave. 3.
Greek Broken Wave. 5, 6,
7. Egyptian Smooth and
Rippling Water Patterns.
8. Mediæval Wave. 10, 11,
14. Assyrian. 15. Persian
or Greek (from Glass
Bowl, British Museum).

16. English Waves
(Durham Embroideries.)

Where shall the tartan be placed? It is certainly primitive, and apparently
had no intention beyond that of employing as many coloured threads as
there were dyes, so as to form the brightest contrasts, or else to be as
invisible as possible either in the sunshine or in the shade. The Gauls
brought this kind of weaving with them from the East, and probably
invented the pattern, if such a motiveless design can be so called. It had its
classical name, “Polymita,” and was admired in Rome when newly
imported, as being something original and barbaric. The Romans found it in
Britain, and Boadicea wore a tartan dress on the day of her defeat. Perhaps
even then fashions came from France, and it may have been her best tunic
from across the Channel. This fabric may have been imported by the Belgic
Gauls, and was so easily woven on house looms, that it became in time the
feudal dress of the Scottish tribes and clans, and the colours were
ingeniously arranged to show the most different effects. The tartan has
always been a resource for the woollen trade, and the fashion constantly
recurs in France, either from sentiment or the actually inherited Gallic taste;
but it remains a primitive pattern, and nothing can make it artistic. No
embroidery can soften the constantly recurring angles, and only fringes can
be employed to decorate a tartan costume. Pliny tells us of the ingenuity of
Zeuxis, who, to show his wealth, had his name embroidered in gold in the
squared compartments of his outer garment.[97]
Primitive patterns still linger in many savage nations, but especially
throughout uncivilized Africa. Curious to say, the very ancient fossilized
early art of Egypt does not assist us to trace it back to a prehistoric style,
though it may lead us into prehistoric times.

NATURALISTIC.

The phases of the naturalistic patterns are constantly recurring. Art is
always tending to realism, in the laudable effort to reach the motive without
the shackles of rules. Each phase has fallen a prey to symbolism, to
conventionalism, or to mannerism, which last symptom marks the decline

and fall of art. We shall find these phases everywhere in the design of
patterns.
Naturalism has always striven, by simple repetition, to reduce to patterns
the forms of flowers, fruits, animals, birds, insects, reptiles, and other
natural objects.
In flower patterns the simplest forms by repetition make sometimes the
richest patterns, and the most effective. (Plate 11, Nos. 1 and 2.)
It is remarkable that one very beautiful class of natural objects is rarely
employed in ancient decoration[98]—shells and corals. The barbarous tribes
of the West Coast of Africa alone seem to have appreciated their forms, and
added them to their small repertory of naturalistic patterns. They do not
appear in any European or Asiatic textiles till the seventeenth century, when
shells were much used in the decorations of the reigns of Queen Anne and
Louis Quatorze.
The first change from naturalism into the conventional was through
symbolism, and belonged to the time when unwritten thought was first
recorded by pictured signs, which then ceased to be merely decoration. We
find that the naturalism of the earliest Egyptians and Asiatics was soon
entirely absorbed by the effort to express some hidden meaning or mystery,
and then to fit the representation to a special place and purpose, and to
restore it, as it were, to decorative art.

Pl. 11.

See larger image

1. Persian Flower Border. 2.
Egyptian Border,
composed of Head-dress
of the god Nile
(Wilkinson’s “Ancient
Egyptians”). 3. Assyrian.
4. Assyrian.

The lotus and the patterns founded on its forms, and the many emblematic
meanings attached to them, are notable examples of these transmutations in
style and intention, and of the value given to their intention and use in
Egypt and India, where each development was immediately crystallized
into a recognized pattern, and given its place and language. It received its
“mot d’ordre,” and continued to act upon it long after the meaning was
forgotten or out of date.

The rolling pattern which had so long represented only the “wave,” was
given to the really straight stem of the lotus, and its blossom, substituted for
the wave’s crest, now filled many a frieze in Indian temple architecture;
whereas the lotus stems in Egypt were still bound in sheaves to form
columns, and the flowers, buds, and leaves spread and blossomed into
capitals. Here we have symbolism and conventionalized naturalism, all
combined, showing how their principles, though quite distinct, can mix and
unite. The conventional form often superseded and effaced the naturalistic,
and became the sign of an idea, or the hieroglyphic picture of a thing;
immovable and unalterable in Egypt, where every effort was made to secure
eternity on earth, but continually returning to naturalism in India, where the
Aryan tendency, with the assistance of the “Code of Manu,” always
recurred to the restoration of the ancient naturalistic motive.
In the India Museum we may see the “wave” motive converted into a lotus
pattern by rolling the long stems, and filling up the spaces between with the
full-faced blossom. Sometimes the pattern is started by the figure of an
elephant, from whose mouth the stem of the flower of the sun proceeds.
This occurs so often that it must originally have had a meaning. Sometimes
the sacred convolvulus takes the place of the lotus. (Plate 12.)
On an Egyptian mural painting are seen parties of men snaring ducks
among papyrus and lotus plants. These are entirely conventional, and are, in
fact, a sort of recognized hieroglyphic representing the idea of a lotus.[99]
The lotus was the accepted emblem of the sun, and reduced to a many-
leaved radiating pattern may be found as an architectural ornament on the
outside of the Buddhist “topes,” of which the models are on the staircase of
the British Museum.[100] (Plate 13.)
We have Sir G. Birdwood’s authority for believing that, though the actual
lotus was a native of India, and carried thence to Egypt, its decorative use
as a pattern was Egyptian, and so returned to India. Both accepted it as their
“sunflower.”[101]

Pl. 12.

See larger image

1. Indian Rolling Lotus
Pattern. 2, 3. Indian Lotus
Patterns. 4, 5. Egyptian
Lotus Patterns. 6. Sacred
Convolvulus. Indian
(seventeenth century).

Pl. 13.

See larger image

1, 2. Indian Designs of
Assyrian Daisy and
Egyptian Lotus. 3.
Vitruvian Scroll. Vignola.
Architecture.

Can it be our Aryan descent which induces in us the earnest adoration, in
our art of to-day, of our northern prototype of the sun’s emblem? I fear that
we must acknowledge that our æsthetic worship of our sunflowers is
somewhat false and affected. Æstheticism is not art. Sunflowers, painted or
embroidered as decoration, do not “take” if they are ordered and ranged,
and reduced to a pattern like those of Egypt. They must be naturalistic, and,
if possible, remind us of a disorderly cottage garden; whereas in India they
were adapted from nature on fixed principles, which immediately reduced
them to the conventional.

See larger image

Sunflower pattern, R. S. A. N.
XIX. Century

I give an illustration of a Gothic sunflower resembling a transfigured rose;
and another of an ordered naturalistic sunflower pattern, from a design of
the Royal School of Art Needlework. (Plate 14.)

Fig. 9.
Gothic Sunflower. From Christ’s College Chapel, Cambridge.

I have given this account of the patterns founded on the lotus, as we can
almost from this distance of time take a bird’s-eye view of its rise in
naturalism, its spread, dispersion, and its crystallization into conventional
forms; also we can trace how the lotus patterns of Indian art have resulted,
when accepted in Europe, in nothing but the rolling wave, carrying flower
forms which no longer represent a lotus; and how the lotus bud and flower
pattern has become in time the classical “egg and tongue;” which, however,
may have resulted also from a combination of other motives.
Representations of animal forms are sometimes very remarkable in phases
of naturalism. The few remains of Celtic art that have survived are entirely
animal, or very nearly so. In their stone, gold, silver, and bronze work, and
in illuminated MSS., we meet with only animal forms; never a flower or a
leaf.
Besides the Indo-Chinese patterns in Celtic art, which suggest the Chinese
lattice-work (so strongly insisted on by Semper as a constant motive), we
also find in all their decorations compartments containing involved patterns
of cords or strings knitted or plaited, suggesting the entrails of animals,

which by these hunting people were consulted as being mysteriously
prophetic of approaching events, especially success or failure in the chase,
and impending warlike raids.[102] There is no other way of accounting for
these designs, which are peculiar to the race, unless we believe they always
represent snakes. (Pl. 15.)
In England much that was characteristic of the style was lost as soon as the
Saxons drove out the Celts, who carried it to Ireland, as may be seen in the
Book of Kells, and the carving of the Harp of Tara, and the Celtic jewels in
the Irish museums; but the interlacing patterns survived throughout Anglo-
Saxon art, and were marvellously ingenious and beautiful; witness the
Durham Book of St. Cuthbert.
We have no Celtic textiles remaining to us, unless some embroidery in the
Marien-Kirche collection at Dantzic may be of that style and time. This is
suggested by its altogether Indo-Chinese and very barbarous character;[103]
and one of the coronation mantles in Bock’s “Kleinodien” is Runic in its
peculiar serpent design.

See larger image

Illumination from the Lindisfarne Gospels, about A.D. 700

Pl. 16.

See larger image

Demeter. From a Greek Vase in the British Museum.

“Judging from their illuminated MSS.,” it is said, “the elements borrowed
from textile art by the Celts are plaits, bows, zigzags, knots, geometrical
figures in various symmetrically developed combinations, crosses, whorls,
and lattice-work; next, those taken from metal work, such as spirals and
nail-heads let into borders; thirdly, simple or composite zoomorphic forms,
such as bodies of snakes, birds’ heads on long necks, lizards, dogs, dragons,
and the like.”[104] They well understood how to make a pattern by the
repetition of objects of any class.

Pl. 17.

See larger image

1. Embroidery on a Greek Mantle, third century B.C., from the Tomb of
the Seven Brothers, Crimea.
2. Egyptian Painted and Embroidered Linen. The cone, the bead, the
daisy, the wave, the lotus under water, are all shown on this fragment.

Pl. 18.

See larger image

Egyptian Tapestry.
1. Woven and embroidered on
a Sleeve. 2. Woven and
embroidered. 3. Painted
and embroidered.

Representations of human figures in embroideries probably originated in
hangings for the wall; but have been treated as decorative forms, both by
the Indians and the Greeks, for wearing apparel. The peplos of Minerva was
bordered with fighting gods and giants, and the Empress Theodora’s dress
in the Ravenna mosaic repeats exactly the same motive. (See Fig. 4, and Pl.
6.)
There are two other examples of such Greek patterns. The mantle of
Demeter on a Greek vase in the British Museum, of the best period (Pl. 16),
is embroidered with flying genii and victorious chariots; and the

embroidered mantle lately found in a Crimean tomb, is of precisely the
same style of design, and the one illustrates the other. These instances are so
exceptional, that it is curious that here, as in the case of the peplos, in each
case there should happen to be a duplicate. (Plates 16 and 17, No. 1.)
In Babylonian, Assyrian, and Chaldean art we constantly find animal forms
in patterns. The lion and the hare, birds and insects, are the commonest; and
there are some instances of human figures reduced to a pattern in these
sculptured representations of textiles. (Plate 2.)
There are curiously woven little human figures finished with the needle on
the sleeve of an Egyptian dress in the British Museum, from Saccarah (Pl.
18), and, of course, when such a design is small, it ceases to be very
objectionable. On the whole, however, naturalistic designs for embroideries
are more safely confined to floral decorations, excepting always flat
tapestries for walls, which, representing pictures, may be as naturalistic as
their purpose and style will admit.
Animal forms are often reduced to patterns by repetition in Indian and
Persian embroidery.[105] The drawing is naturalistic, but the colouring is
fanciful. We may see any day, on Persian rugs, scarlet lions pursuing and
capturing blue or yellow hares. The flatness and want of all shadows tends
to the conventional. Lions, bulls, cats, beetles, and serpents abound
especially in Egyptian design; insects, reptiles, and fish in Asiatic patterns,
where animals are sometimes made to walk in pairs, with their heads and
tails twisted into a pattern.
Though landscapes are so rarely worked that the subject is, perhaps, hardly
worthy of notice, yet such mistaken specimens of ingenuity have occurred.
An altar frontal was exhibited at Zurich, in 1883, containing some really
exquisitely worked landscapes, which were quite out of place, both as art
and as decoration, for an ecclesiastical purpose. This was of the beginning
of the last century.[106]
While we appreciate and should take advantage of our national tendency to
naturalistic design, we must beware of looking on fixed rules as bonds
which cramp our liberty, and of thinking that nature should be our only
guide to an otherwise unassisted and unfettered inspiration. Without the
wholesome checks of experience and educated taste, and the knowledge

which teaches us what to avoid, as well as what to imitate, founded on the
successes and failures of others, we fall into weak imitations of natural
objects.
Mr. Redgrave points out how unpleasant and jarring to our sense of what is
appropriate, and therefore how offensive to good taste and common sense,
it is to tread on a carpet of water-lilies swimming in blue pools, or on fruits
and flowers heaped up and casting shadows probably towards the light.[107]
Woollen lions and tigers, as large as life, basking before the fire in a wreath
of roses, are alarming rather than agreeable, and are of the nature of a
practical joke in art. It is the search for novelty in naturalism that leads to
such astonishing compositions; and these, being successively rejected in the
heart of our civilization and culture, are drifted away to vulgarize our
colonies, or to be sold cheap to furnish Continental hotels, and make the
English traveller blush for his home manufactures.

SYMBOLICAL AND CONVENTIONAL.

Though it is true that the highest art, pictorial and sculptural, is always
struggling towards naturalism, the art of decoration is, by its nature,
constantly tending to conventionalism. Patterns, if not absolutely
geometrical or naturalistic, must be classed under this principle. Let us
examine what is meant by a conventional pattern.
It may be said that the conventional includes every form—the symbolic, the
naturalistic, or even the hieroglyphic—that is selected and consecrated to
convey a certain idea. The lily of Florence, which is something between a
lily and an iris, but unlike either, is a conventional form; likewise the lily of
France, which it is said was once a conventional frog. The rose of England,
the shamrock, and the thistle have always been more naturalistic than is
usual in such heraldic designs; but the parti-coloured rose of York and
Lancaster was decidedly conventional, and heraldic.
Conventional patterns now are those which, having been originally
naturalistic in style, but perhaps emblematic as to their motive, have been
repeated till the meaning and form have been lost; or else, as in the case of
the lotus, the emblem is forgotten, and nothing remains but the recognized
conventional form.

One conventional pattern which, having commenced by being a symbol,
has been repeated and varied till it has allowed the original essential
meaning to escape, is the “palm-leaf” or “cone” pattern on French or
Paisley shawls, which, having been a sacred emblem—the tree of life—in
Persia, became in Europe, when the religious myth was lost, only a shawl
pattern—merely a leaf, with plant painted within its outlines. (Plate 23,
Nos. 10, 11.)
Decorative designs become conventional in spite of the intention of the
designer. He is overruled by the spaces to be covered and the materials to be
employed. His design must produce a flat pattern; he must repeat it again
and again; he must give it a strong outline; he must distribute it regularly at
certain intervals. Repetition at once conventionalizes the most naturalistic
drawing, and the most sacred and mysterious emblem. Alternation is
equally a source of conventionalism. There is no motive that cannot be
conventionalized into a pattern by repetition. A Gothic crown and a true lily,
repeated, will make an ecclesiastical conventional pattern. Then come all
the Arabian and Moresque forms (which are mostly geometric), and also the
Gothic (which are partly geometric and partly naturalistic, especially those
in German and debased Spanish and Portuguese Gothic design).

Pl. 19.

See larger image

1. Key Pattern. 2. Broken-up
Key. 3. Beads. 4. Key and
sign of Land. 5. Wave and
Babylonian Daisy. 6. Key
and Fundata. 7. Wave and
Bead. 8. Wave and Daisy.
9. Key and Sun Cross.
These Key Patterns from
Ceiling of a Tomb at
Saccarah, in Egypt.
(Wilkinson’s “Ancient
Egyptians.”)

Then we must accept as conventional all those which may be called
kaleidoscope patterns, which are broken fragments of old motives, repeated

or “radiated” so as to become partly geometrical, wholly conventional. (See
Pl. 17, No. 2.)
Conventional patterns may be reduced into three kinds.
First, the naturalistic, which have by repetition been adapted for decorative
art.
Secondly, the symbolical—Pagan or Christian, religious or historical,
including the Heraldic.
Thirdly, those conventional forms which may never have had any inner
meaning, or else, having originally had one, have lost it.
All these exist, sometimes apart and sometimes mingled; so that some
thought must be expended in seeking the motive which has brought them
together, and finding in each the internal evidence of its descent.
It is evident that patterns, conventionalized and brought from distant
sources, sometimes meet and amalgamate. When the origin of a
conventional pattern is disputed, it is worth while to examine if it has a
double parentage. Let me give, as an instance, the key pattern. It may have
been, as Semper believes, originally Chinese, and derived from wicker-
work design. It represents also the broken or dislocated “wave,” the symbol
of the River Mæander,[108] and for water generally. We find it everywhere in
company with the wave, which never could have had any connection with
wicker-work, not only in China, but in Persia, India, Egypt, Arabia, Greece,
Rome, and Central America. (Pl. 19.)
Can any invention of man show a more symbolical intention than the wave
pattern? The airy leap drawn downwards by the force of gravitation;
controlled, and again made to return, but strong to insist on its own curve of
predilection, rushing back under the same circle; strengthened by the
downward movement to spring again from its original plane; beginning
afresh its Sisyphus labour, and facing the next effort with the same grace
and agility. Undying force, and eternal flowing unrest—these are the
evident intention and symbol of the wave pattern. Though I believe the key
pattern to be a modification of the wave form, yet the locking and
unlocking movement suggests a repetition of the Tau, or key of life.

When we admire the friezes of garlands hung
between the skulls of oxen and goats, we cannot
for a moment doubt the sacrificial idea on which
the design was founded. When the wreaths are
carried by dancing children, we recognize the Fig. 10.
impersonation of the rejoicing of the dædal
earth.
The Greeks, however strongly they exerted themselves to throw off the
shackles of conventionality in sculpture, painting, and architecture, yet
yielded to the traditional force of the symbolical pattern, and accepted most
of the Oriental forms, merely remodelling them for their own use, and
adding to their significance what their culture required; at the same time
giving infinite variety, as their perfect taste dictated.

Pl. 20.

See larger image

Trees of Life.
1, 2, 3, 5. Assyrian. 4. Sicilian
Silk. (Birdwood’s “Indian
Arts,” pp. 331, 335, 336,
337.)

Aristophanes, in “The Frogs,” laughs at the Persian carpet patterns—their
unnatural birds and beasts and flowers—whilst he claims for his own frogs,
that they at least have the merit of being natural.[109] This little touch of art
throws a gleam of inner light on the struggle towards originality and truth
which characterized the Greek principles of beauty and fitness in literature
and art, in direct contrast to that which was always turning back to those
fossil forms which were only respectable on account of their age and their
mystery, but of which the tradition and intention were already lost.
Roman patterns were merely Greek adaptations with an Etruscan flavour,
which was a survival of the earliest Italian art. Perhaps the indigenous
element had been already modified by Phœnician influence.
In taking stock of Oriental symbolical patterns, we find that one of those of
the widest ancestry and longest continuity is the “Sacred Hom.”[110] (Pl. 20-
24.) This is to be found in Babylonian, Persian,[111] Indian, Greek, and
Roman art; and consequently it prevails in all European decoration (except
the Gothic), where it was reduced to unrecognizable forms.
Sir George Birdwood says the Hom or Homa was the Sanskrit Soma, used
as an intoxicating drink by the early Brahmins, and was extracted from the
plant of that name, an almost leafless succulent Asclepiad. It appears to
have changed its conventional form as other plants by fermentation came to
the front, containing what appeared to be the “spirit of life”—the aqua vitæ.
The palm, with its wonderful fruit, which is convertible into intoxicating
drinks, and afterwards the vine itself, were each of them moulded into
analogous conventional fruit forms, which keep as much as possible within
the limits of the original cone shape. (Pl. 21.)

Pl. 21.

See larger image

1. Tree of Life and Lions. Gate
of Mycenæ. 2. Persian or
Sicilian Silk. Tree of Life
and Leopards.

Pl. 22.

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1. Split Lotus Fruit on Chinese
Bowl. 2. Split Lotus
resembling Tree of Life.
Frieze by Benozzo
Gozzoli, Ricardi Palace,
Florence. 3. Petal of
Flower on Glass Bowl
from Southern Italy.
British Museum.

There is a palm-tree which absolutely carries a cone in the heart of its
crown of fronds.[112] This may have helped to preserve the original motive
of the sacred tree of life. The cone form in classical art was drawn from the
pine cone and the artichoke; and in mediæval art these were sometimes
replaced by the pomegranate, and in the late Renaissance by the pine-apple,
newly arrived from the West Indies.[113] It is a good example of the

blending of one vegetable form into another, making the sequence, of which
each phase in the East had an historical cause or a symbolical meaning,[114]
but which in Europe had gradually lost all motive, and was simply an
acknowledged decorative form.[115] In architectural ornament it is called the
honeysuckle,[116] which it had grown to resemble in the days of Greece.

Pl. 23.

See larger image

Different forms of Tree of Life, from Sicilian Silks.

Pl. 24.

Modern Embroidery from the Principalities, in which the cone-shaped
tree grows into a vine,
and the two animals at the foot have lost their shape and intention.

This sacred tree, the Homa of Zoroaster and of the later Persians, has so
early a beginning that we find it on Assyrian monuments.[117] Rock says
“that, perhaps, it stood for the tree of life, which grew in Paradise.” It is
represented as a subject of homage to men and animals, and it invariably
stands between priests and kings, or beasts kneeling to it. It is figured on the
small bucket for religious rites, carried in the hands, or embroidered in the
upper sleeve of the monarch’s tunic. It always represents a shrub,
sometimes bearing a series of umbels of seven flowers each. (Pl. 2, 20.)

Sometimes the expression of the symbol is reduced to the cone-fruit of the
homa alone; or even to a blossom, as in the two glass bowls in the Slade
collection in the British Museum, from a tomb at Chiusi, in Etruria. Here
the design is a flower, of which each petal contains the essential emblem—a
plant within a plant. These bowls, pronounced to be Greek of the fourth
century B.C., have yet to me a strong Oriental character. (Pl. 22, No. 3.)
I have spoken of the lotus as a naturalistic pattern. One mode of drawing
and embroidering its flower in India, is to cut it in two; half the blossom is
then carefully and almost botanically copied, thus conveying the inner
meaning of the sacred flower. (Pl. 22, No. 3.)
Another conventional pattern, common to all times of art and all nations, is
that called in architecture the “egg and tongue” pattern. (Pl. 13.) This, as I
have already said, is supposed to be derived directly from the lotus. The
Egyptians formed it from the bud and blossom; and the pattern is found in
India, Greece, and Rome, changing continually and yet retaining its
identity. Vitruvius claimed to have given it the last touch and finish, so that
in Italy it was called the Vitruvian scroll; and it is common to all decoration,
even in textiles, though it is hardly suited for weaving or embroidery. This
is one of the earliest patterns which, having ceased long ago to be a
religious emblem or sign, still survives by its decorative fitness, and
perpetuates the echoes of its origin.

Pl. 25.

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Typical Crosses.
1. Swastika. 2. From a Greek
Vase, 765 B.C. 3. Indian
Sectarial Mark of Sakti
race. 4. Buddhist and
Jainis mark. 5. Early
Rhodian Pottery. 6.
Egyptian prehistoric
Cross. 7. Tau Cross. 8.
Mark of land, Egyptian
and Ninevite. 9. Ditto. 10.
Clavus. 11, 12, 13.
Scandinavian Sun and
Moon Crosses. 14, 15, 16.
Celtic. 17. Chrysoclavus.
18, 19. Stauracin patterns.
20. Scandinavian, from

Norway. 21. Runic Cross.
22. Cross at Palenque, in
Temple of the Sun. 23.
Scotch Celtic Cross. 24.
Cross from Iona. 25, 26.
Runic Crosses. 27. Cross
on the Dalmatic of
Charlemagne. 28. From
the Mantle of Henry II.,
Emperor of Germany.

Of the conventional symbolical forms of the early Christian Church I shall
speak more fully in the chapter on ecclesiastical art, and therefore would
only point out here, while touching on symbolical decoration, how that
phase of Christian art is a great historical instance of the deep ancient
meanings it illustrates; showing the motive to be often in accordance with
the inherited pagan symbol, and yet differing from it. Pre-eminent among
these is the emblem of the Cross, so early and universally used, full of
mysterious secret allusions to the groping faiths of idolatrous nations,
before the great fundamental idea of the “Word” was attached to it. This
was one of the old signs used as a pattern, and transfigured into a fresh type,
of which the radiance reflected back light upon all that preceded it, even as
Chinese ancestors are ennobled by the deeds of their descendants.

Pl. 26.

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1. Pallas Athene, from a vase
in Lord Northampton’s
Collection. 2. Ajax in a
cloak embroidered with
swastika, sun cross, and
prehistoric water
patterns. Etruscan
Museum. Vatican.

The cross (Pl. 25), was a sign and a pattern in prehistoric art. It was the
double of the Tau, the Egyptian emblem of life; and while the Jews reject
the Christian cross, they still claim to have warned off the destroying angel
by this sign in blood over the lintels of their doors in the first Passover.
But the most ancient and universal form of the cross is that of the Swastika,
or Fylfote. This “prehistoric cross” is said to be formed of two fire-sticks,
belonging to the ancient worship of the sun, laid across each other ready for

friction; but losing that meaning, from an emblem they fell into a pattern,
and this you will still find, utterly meaningless, on Persian carpets of to-day.
Sir G. Birdwood gives the Swastika as the sectarial mark of the Sakti sects
in India. Fergusson names it with the mound buildings, as belonging to all
Buddhist art; and examples of the Swastika are to be found on Rhodian
pottery from the Necropolis of Kamiros, where we find also the key pattern.
In early Greek art the Swastika and Gammadion are everywhere, especially
as embroidery on dress. Minerva’s petticoats are sometimes worked all over
with the latter. On an early Greek vase in the Museo Gregoriano, are
painted Ajax and Achilles playing at dice; and the mantle of Ajax is squared
into an embroidered pattern that alternately represents a sun or star and a
Gammadion (Pl. 26, No. 2). But it is unnecessary to multiply classical
examples, which are endless.
The Christian Cross was often formed by converting the Tau into the
Gamma, the sacred letter of the Greeks. It is said to have been the emblem
of the corner-stone, and as a pattern, was called, down to the thirteenth
century, the “Gammadion;” and though it had lost its original motive, it
continued to preserve the idea of a secret and mystical meaning.
The Gammadion, as well as the Swastika, enters largely into the
illuminations of the Celtic Book of Kells and those of the Lindisfarne
MSS.; also it is to be found on the Celtic shields in the British Museum,
together with the Swastika. Both appear in the Persian carpets of to-day,
and as patterns were, in ecclesiastical decoration, employed down to the
fifteenth century, both for European and British textiles. The Swastika, as
well as the wave pattern, is of mysterious and universal antiquity, and has
certainly traversed four thousand years,—how much more we dare not say.
It is to be found throughout Egyptian and Indian art—never in that of
Assyria.
Of the time of Rameses the Second we have two figures in a mural painting,
an ally and an enemy, a guest and a prisoner, both clothed in embroidered
garments, parsemés with the prehistoric cross.

Fig. 11.
Egyptian Enemy and Ally.

In the chapter on ecclesiastical art I shall again refer to this immemorial
symbolical and conventional pattern. I much regret that, in the absence of a
translation, I am prevented from availing myself of the accumulated
learning on the subject of “The Prehistoric Cross,” by Baron Ernest de
Bunsen.

Pl. 27.

Imitation of a Carpet carved in stone, from Nineveh, showing the
Indian Lotus and the Assyrian Daisy. (In the British Museum.)

There was a pattern called the “crenelated” which apparently was derived
from the Assyrian battlement, and is found throughout classic art, somewhat
conventionalized.[118] It is named as an embroidered pattern in the
inscription recording votive offerings of dresses in the temple of Athene at
Athens.[119]
We know something of the conventional and symbolical embroideries of
Nineveh, which are quite unlike those of India, except in the adoption of the
lotus for decoration.[120] These are best understood by illustrations; and,
therefore, I give one of the beautiful sculptured carpets from Nineveh, in

the British Museum (Pl. 27), showing the
Assyrian use of the lotus and cone, and
the embroidered garment of a king from
one of the sculptures in low relief (Plate
1). These are very stately—perfectly
conventional and decorative; and we feel Fig. 12.
that they have grown where we find them, Crenelated Pattern.
and are not borrowed from another
civilization. What strikes us most, is the constant repetition and the little
variety of ornament in these patterns. The forms are strongly marked—
wheels or whorls, or daisies, often repeated. (The daisy belongs to Assyria
as the lotus to Egypt.) The flowers are simply leafless blossoms. Splendid
embroideries of sacred emblematical designs are, however, occasionally
found, such as those from Layard’s “Monuments” (Plate 2).
Much has been written on the early symbolism of plants and flowers. The
sun-myths have enlisted all floral legendary lore, and conventional
ornament was largely drawn from them.
Many symbols are present to us when we name certain plants. The lily is
the acknowledged sign of purity, the rose of love, the honeysuckle of
enduring faith, the laurel of poetry, and the palm of victory; the oak of
strength, the olive of peace. Some plants have accumulated more than one
meaning. The vine has many attributes. It is an emblem of the mysteries of
the Christian Church. It symbolizes plenty, joy, the family. Ivy means
friendship, conviviality, remembrance.
The symbolism of beasts (bestiaria),[121] of birds (volucraria), and of
stones (lapidaria) filled many volumes in the mediæval ages, and are well
worthy of the study of the decorative artist. The symbolism of animals and
birds especially, constantly attracts our attention in the Oriental and Sicilian
textiles of the early Christian times, and to the end of the thirteenth century.
Later, in European textile decoration, most animals were accepted as
emblematic in Christian art, beginning with the symbols of the four
Evangelists. All the virtues and all the vices found their animal emblems
conventionalized, and were thus woven, embroidered, and painted.[122]

Reptiles and insects are included under the head of “beasts,” and perhaps
fishes also. Each was dowered with a symbolical meaning; and thus
admitted into art, they were conventionalized by being strongly outlined,
coloured flat; and by repetition without variation, were converted into
patterns.

Pl. 28.

See larger image

1, 2. Gothic Tiles. 3. Gothic
Border of a Dress. 4.
Gothic Vine. Westminster
Abbey.

When the use of heraldic illustration was added to the already accepted
symbolism, animal decoration became very common, and soon forgot its

symbolical motives, which were succeeded by Renaissance fanciful
patterns; and then the conventionalized beast and its symbolism disappeared
from European decoration, except when it was a direct copy of an Oriental
design.
Certain symbolical forms have, however, survived. The eagle has always
meant empire, and the double-headed eagle, a double royalty.[123] Ezekiel
represents Babylon and Egypt, symbolically, as two eagles.[124] But here we
approach the subject of heraldry, which became a science in mediæval days;
and every man and woman in any way remarkable, every chivalrous action
and national event, became a subject for textile art, and was woven or
worked with the needle on banner, hanging, or dress. The altar decorations
received a new stimulus as historical records, as well as religious symbols,
and pride and piety were equally enlisted in these gifts to the Church.
Byzantine patterns have a barbaric stamp, and yet have much of the
grandiose about them; but they are to the last degree conventional. In the
early mosaics, both in Constantinople and Rome, every face and head,
every flower and animal, represents a type and not an individual.

Fig. 13.
Gothic Trees, from Bayeux tapestry.

Gothic foliage patterns, in England and elsewhere, are a struggle between
the naturalistic and the conventional. The Norman style and the

Romanesque, which preceded it, and from which it was modified and
elevated, show their vegetable forms thick-stemmed and few-leaved,
whereas the Gothic aspired to a developed gracefulness; and the
Renaissance, which succeeded it, assumed all the freedom of natural
flowers and plants, floating in the breeze, on their delicate stems. (Pl. 28.)
All the Renaissance patterns, which, as their name denotes, were born
again, like butterflies to frolic for a day of gay enjoyment, are purely
decorative. Their generally charming, graceful forms group together to
cover empty spaces with every regard to the rules of design and
composition, but without any inner meaning. If we take these arabesques to
pieces, we generally find the parts come from various sources; and having
served last in pagan Rome for pagan purposes, had been slightly
refashioned for Christian decorative art,[125] before the Byzantine inartistic
taste, and barbaric splendour of metal-work patterns, had extinguished all
the gay fancy of the arts of Southern Europe.
The mediæval revival was a return to the light and fantastic, and a protest
against the solemnity of all Gothic art, which had had its great day, had
culminated, and died out. The patterns of the Renaissance are all guided by
the principles of repetition and duplication, or that of doubling the pattern,
which repeats itself to right and left, as if folded down the middle.
The principal lines thus echoed one another; but the artist was permitted to
vary the conventionalism of the general forms of figures, flowers, fruit, or
butterflies, so as to balance and yet differ in every detail.

Pl. 29.

See larger image

Cloud Patterns.
1, 2, 3, 7. Japanese. 4. Chinese.
5, 8, 9. Mediæval. 6.
Badge of Richard II.

Pl. 30.

See larger image

Indo-Chinese Coverlet, supposed to have belonged to Oliver Cromwell.
Hatfield House.

Amongst the conventional patterns which have descended to us, and are in
general use without any particular symbolical meaning being attached to
them, we must instance those derived from the Cloud pattern. This is to be
found in early Chinese and Indian art, but I do not recognize it in Egyptian
or Greek decoration. It came through Byzantium, and took its place
amongst early Christian patterns. (Pl. 29.)

Pl. 31.

See larger image

The Fundata or Netted Pattern.
Portion of a Phœnician Bowl from Cyprus.
Egyptian. Egyptian. Egyptian.

The cloud pattern is also Japanese, and is supposed to have been originally
derived from Central Asia. It varies in shape, and is found as an ornament
on the head of the sceptre in the collection at Nara, in Japan, which is
twelve or thirteen hundred years old. There is an example of the cloud
pattern in Aelfled’s embroidery at Durham; and it is often found under the
feet of saints in painted glass and embroideries before the fourteenth
century. A curious Indian example exists in a coverlet belonging to the
Marquis of Salisbury, said to have been the property of Oliver Cromwell,
on which the central medallion is filled with white horses careering amidst
the cloud pattern.[126] (Pl. 30.)

The netted pattern called Fundata is extremely ancient. We find it in
Egyptian mural paintings, as well as in the centre of a Phœnician bowl from
Cyprus, now in the Louvre. The mediæval Fundata was a silk material,
covered with what appeared to be a gold network covering the stuff. It is
supposed to be the same as that worn by Constantine,[127] and is named in
ecclesiastical inventories as late as the fifteenth century. (Pl. 31.)
All the wheel patterns are very ancient, and appear to be simply
conventional wheels. In France they were called roés. There is a fine
instance of this wheel pattern in Auberville’s “Tissus.” The wheels
sometime enclose triumphal cars and other pictorial subjects. (Pl. 34.)
The patterns which are apparently composed with the intention of avoiding
all meaning, are the Moorish. They are neither animal, vegetable, nor
anything else. They show no motive in their complicated domes, their
honeycombing, and their ingenious conventional forms; but cover equally
textile fabrics or stucco ceilings without suggesting any idea, religious or
symbolical.
All the splendid Italian brocades and velvet damasks were of conventional
patterns, and like their Arab and Sicilian models, and also like their Spanish
contemporaries, represented, and sought to represent nothing on earth. It
was all floreated and meandering design; the motive reminding one of the
pine-apple and the acanthus, or of vine stems meeting or parting, but never
anything naturalistic for a moment. When animals were introduced it was
always as a pattern doubled face to face, as if folded down a straight line.
We may say the same of the succeeding Louis Quatorze and the Louis
Quinze styles, which were of the culminating period of clever and fantastic
conventional decoration.
Our modern designs have phases of imitation, and the patterns of rich
brocades which our great-grandmothers wore, came into fashion again
about the third decade of this century. Now we have been trying to find our
inspirations further back, and some of our copies of the simpler Sicilian
patterns, with an occasional pair of birds, or a conventional plant, imitating
the motive of the tree of life, have been very pretty. The only defect is the
poverty which results from the absence of any active and informing motive.
It is, however, easier to criticize than to create.

I would venture here to find fault
with a very common method of
converting a natural object into a
conventional pattern, by radiation.
Certain modes of repetition are very
objectionable. A pattern, for
instance, repeated four times round
a centre, or a natural flower
repeated exactly, but lying north,
south, east, and west, are more or
less inartistic, we may say vulgar.
(Fig. 14.)
A natural flower may be
conventionalized and radiated by
Fig. 14.
placing it in the centre of the
Radiated Pattern.
composition facing you; and the
leaves arranged surrounding it, so
as to formalize the design,
though there is nothing really
unnatural in the way in which
they are made to grow. The
illustration of a radiated
sunflower explains my meaning.
It has been already observed that
by repetition almost any object
may be reduced to a pattern, but
taste must be exercised in the
selection of what is appropriate
and beautiful. Radiation is also
Fig. 15. really a useful factor in
Radiated Sunflower. conventional art, but common
sense must guide the artist here
as well as taste. In radiating the
forms of a flower, nature gives endless hints of beauty; but a radiating

pattern of human figures would be ridiculous, and even the branches of a
tree cannot be so treated.
The awning of the classic hypæthral hall or court was often reproduced in
Roman arabesques. Sometimes we find it in a classical tomb, painted over
the ceiling, and recalling its original use. This was revived in the Cinque-
cento Renaissance; and again in Adams’ “Eighteenth Century Decorations,”
it became an accepted pattern, called “the shell,” losing its original motive,
and descending to fill up the panels of tea-caddies and surround keyholes.
When thus reduced to the appearance of a little ruff, it needs some thought
to recognize it, and give it credit for its first motive.
It is amusing to find how a form which it seems
impossible to reduce to a pattern, will yet fall into one by
a judicious arrangement of light and shadow, and by
repetition. There is a little frieze in one of the Indian cases
on the staircase in the British Museum, which is extremely
pretty and effective. It consists of a repetition of little Fig. 16.
balconies with recesses and pillars and figures in pairs. I
give it as illustrating the way conventional patterns grow. This balcony
pattern is of the sixth century, A.D.

Fig. 17.
Indian Balcony Pattern, from steps of tope of Jamal-Zartri,
Afghanistan. British Museum.

The ancient palmated pattern called Chrysoclavus, from the beginning of
our era to the thirteenth century was partly a nail-headed design, and had
become a Christian symbol. It was, probably, originally the primitive spot
pattern; afterwards promoted to being an ornament of discs in colour or
metal: this was Assyrian, Etruscan, and Mycenæan.[128] (Pl. 70.)
Among the conventional patterns which have apparently no hidden
meaning, but which clearly show their descent, are the Chinese and
Japanese wicker and lattice-work designs. The beauty of these is wonderful.
Semper shows that wicker (including bamboo work) was the foundation of
all Chinese civilized life, for constructing houses, bridges, utensils, and for
decoration. He gives this wicker-work origin to the universal key pattern,
which may, however, have a double source—the wave, and the wicker-
work.
We find the Key pattern in a tomb at Essiout, in Egypt, painted perhaps
about 1600 B.C., in company with some other very old friends,[129] the
Tuscan border, the Egg and Tongue, and the Bead, the Daisy, and the Wave.
(Pl. 17, No. 2.) We meet it everywhere in ancient and modern decoration.
There are several forms of it on a large terra-cotta vase in the British
Museum from Kameiros in Rhodes, and on Chinese fictiles and
embroideries. It is found also on garments in Iceland, whither the Greek
patterns must have drifted through Norway, and, as they could go no
further, there they remained.
I have often spoken of the extraordinary survival of a pattern. This is easy
to account for when fashion, “the disturber,” had not yet existed. Then the
ancient motive told its own tale, and its great age was its claim to perpetual
youth; but it is more remarkable where we meet with revivals at distant
periods, and apparently without any connecting link of ancestry or style.
For instance, the women of Genoa wore large cotton veils, printed with the
Indian conventional tree and beast pattern, down to thirty years ago, when
the fashion changed, and winter bonnets and summer muslin veils displaced
the old costume. These patterns are now being printed in England on scores
of cotton curtains for beds and windows.

GEOMETRICAL.

Geometrical patterns may be reduced to a very few primitive elements.

Fig. 18.
Varied adjustments of Square and Circle.

1. The Line, including straight and wavy lines.
2. The Angular Forms, including squares, oblongs, cubes, &c.

3. The Triangular, including zigzags, diamonds, &c.
4. The Circular, including all spots, discs, and radiations.
All these can be blended or mixed so as to form endless varieties. For
instance, the square and the circle can intersect each other in different
proportions, so as to give an entirely new effect to the pattern, each time the
balance is altered or the phase of the repetition varied. The illustration will
explain this. (Fig. 18.)
Right angles may intersect each other so as to produce the whole gamut of
Chinese lattice-work decoration, and all the Celtic and Scandinavian
entwined patterns, from which so many of the embroideries in the Italian
pictures of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries are probably descended.
The Moorish patterns are geometrical, and are created on the principle of
avoiding in art the representation of any created thing. They show much
ingenuity in keeping clear of any possible meaning. Most of these
conventional patterns are founded on the ogee-arch and a kind of
honeycomb pattern, involved and inverted. Their tiles, which nearest
approach textile design, have, indeed, certain vegetable forms added to the
others, but always geometrically arranged as no vegetables ever grew.
Geometrical patterns begin with primitive forms, and come down to the
floor-cloth designs of to-day. They can be extracted in endless variety from
the combinations of the kaleidoscope. This style is well suited for
pavements in mosaic—either secular or ecclesiastical.
The Opus Alexandrinum furnishes us with most beautiful examples and
adaptations for large or small spaces, so as to form the richest or the
simplest floor decorations. How worthily a church may be thus adorned
may be seen on the vast area of the floor of Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome,
or that of the Church of St. Mark in Venice.
The nearest approach to the Opus Alexandrinum in textiles has been in
Patchwork, of which a more artistic use may yet be made. We might
exercise ingenuity in this direction, giving really fine and effective designs
to our workers in patches, whose productions are, in general, simply
alarming.

The fine quilting patterns of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are
almost always geometrical, and make the best background to more
resplendent embroideries overlying them, which is partly owing to their
being only forms, and conveying no idea or inherited meaning. These
expressionless designs are well fitted for spaces and borders in which the
centres are elaborated, and require enclosing or framing; likewise, they are
suited for large areas, which must not be perfectly plain, and yet not too
disturbing to the eye, so as to distract it from the more important ornaments
on the wall or ceiling. They suit carpets in passages or on staircases much
better than any other kind of design, and form the best figured backgrounds
for pictures. Both eye and mind often need repose, and therefore the simpler
the geometrical pattern is, the better. Complicated and too ingenious
combinations are painfully fatiguing. Simplicity and flatness are the
greatest merits in such forms, as in shadowless patterns for textiles, and
especially for embroideries.
If we turn to nature to assist us with new geometrical patterns, we shall find
the most exquisite forms in the crystals of every newly-fallen snowflake,
and in the nodal-points on a plate of metal or glass, covered with sand, and
struck by sound. We shall hardly ever find in these a repetition of exactly
the same combination, and their variety is only equalled by their beauty.

FOOTNOTES:
[96] Sir G. Birdwood tells us of patterns of an Indian brocade called
“Chundtara” (moon and stars), figured all over with representations of heavenly
bodies.
[97] Pliny, “Natural History,” lib. xxx. c. 8, § 34.
[98] There is a shell pattern in gold on a twelfth century fragment of a Bishop’s
garment at Worcester.
[99] See Wilkinson’s “Ancient Egyptians,” vol. iii. pp. 132, 133, 350, 553.
[100] Bötticher, in his “Tektonik,” will allow of but one origin for the “egg and
tongue” pattern. I cannot give up the evident descent from the lotus flower and
bud; but I have said before that a pattern has sometimes a double parentage, and
it may be so in this case.
[101] The lotus is almost entirely lost as a native growth in India, and is fast
disappearing in Egypt. The lotus blossom in Egypt was not only a sacred

emblem, but also an objet de luxe. At their feasts, the honoured guests were
presented with the flowers, and as they faded, slaves carried round baskets of
fresh blossoms. See Wilkinson’s “Manners and Customs of the Ancient
Egyptians.”
[102] See the Book of Lindisfarne, and the two Celtic bronze shields in the
British Museum. These last are very curious. The long involved lines show their
origin, and the shields are enriched with enamel and corals, in repetitions of the
prehistoric cross.
[103] See “Album of Photographs of the Marien-Kirche, Dantzic,” Taf. 31.
[104] Woltmann and Woermann, Eng. Trans., p. 202.
[105] Charlemagne’s dress, in his tomb, was covered with golden elephants.
This must have been Indian. His mantle was “parsemé” with golden bees.
[106] Elsewhere there is a notice of Miss Morritt’s really beautifully
embroidered landscapes at Rokeby; and all who saw them will remember the
extremely clever and effective pictures in crewels by an accomplished American
lady, Mrs. Oliver Wendell Holmes, exhibited in London a few years ago. These
exceptional cases do not, however, disprove the objections against employing
the most unfit and unmanageable materials for producing subjects alien to the art
of embroidery.
[107] See Redgrave’s “Manual of Design,” pp. 50-61.
[108] See Appendix 21, by Ch. T. Newton, to the first edition of Ruskin’s
“Stones of Venice.” He gives, as instances of this pattern, certain coins from
Prienè, where the River Mæander is symbolized by the angular key pattern.
Appendix, No. 1.
[109] “(Euripides loquitur) Not horse-cocks, nor yet goat-stags, such as they
depict on Persian carpets” (Aristophanes, “The Frogs,” v. 939-944). The Persian
carpets, which are the legitimate descendants of Babylonian art, are curiously
fragmentary. In a modern design are to be seen birds, indicated by a head, bill,
and eyes; little coffee-pots, and flowers broken off at the stalks, and small
quadrupeds without any particular form; also the prehistoric cross, the Tau, and
bits of broken-up wave and key patterns. All these, repeated into a pattern,
remind us of scraps in a kaleidoscope, thrown together accidentally, or else taken
up by chance where history and art have dropped them.
[110] “Soma” or “Homa” (“Sarcostemma Viminale vel Brevistigma”), from
Cashmere and the Hindu Cush, still used by the Brahmins, and the juice of
which was the first intoxicant of the human race. See Birdwood’s “Indian Art,”
vol. ii. pp. 336, 337.
[111] “The Hom, the sacred Persian tree, is constantly placed between two
animals, chained to it.” See Pl. 23, Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.
[112] The Hom or Homa, the sacred tree of Assyrian and Persian sculpture and
textiles, is accounted for as a pattern by Dr. Rock, who says: “From the earliest
antiquity a tradition came down through middle Asia, of some holy tree, perhaps
the tree of life spoken of as growing in Paradise.” It is always represented as

something like a shrub, and is a conventional portrait of a palm; but Rock says it
has every look of having belonged to the family of the Asclepiadeæ. For its last
transformation into a vine, see Pl. 24.
[113] Rock’s “Introduction,” p. cxxxi.
[114] Sir George Birdwood says: “The intimate absorption of Hindu life in the
unseen realities of man’s spiritual consciousness is seldom sufficiently
acknowledged by Europeans, and, indeed, cannot be fully comprehended by men
whose belief in the supernatural has been destroyed by the prevailing material
ideas of modern society. Every thought, wish, and deed of the Hindu belongs to
the world of the unseen as well as the seen; and nothing shows this more
strikingly than the traditionary works of India. Everything that is made has a
direct religious use, or some religious symbolism. The materials of which
different articles are fashioned, their weight, and the colours with which they are
painted, are fixed by religious rule. An obscured symbolism of material and
colour is to be traced also in the forms of things, even for the most domestic
uses. Every detail of Indian decoration, Aryan or Turanian, has a religious
meaning, and the arts of India will never be rightly understood until there are
brought to their study, a familiar acquaintance with the character and subjects of
the religious poetry, national legends, and mythological scriptures that have
always been their inspiration, and of which they are the perfected imagery.” See
Sir George Birdwood’s “Indian Arts,” part i. p. 2.
[115] The Persian tree of life was not alien to the worship of the Zoroastrian
religion of the Sassanides, and is said to have been the origin of the worship of
Bacchus. It was introduced by Oriental weavers into Sicilian and Spanish stuffs.
[116] Sir G. Birdwood suggests that the honeysuckle pattern is derived from the
Tree of Life, cone, and palm, refashioned and combined with the graceful
ingenuity of Greek art, and covering a mixture of sacred traditional emblems.
[117] Haug, in his “Essays on the Sacred Writings of the Parsees” (pp. 132, 239),
tells us that these people still hold the homa to be sacred, and from it squeeze a
juice used by them in their religious ceremonies.
[118] See Perrot et Chipiez, “Histoire de l’Art,” vol. ii. pp. 260, 267, Pl. xiv.
[119] See Appendix, No. 1.
[120] India, in return, afterwards influenced Persia, the successor of Babylon.
[121] In India, the elephant is a very common element in a pattern; in Egypt, the
serpent; in Persia, the lion. In animal patterns, certain emblems were grouped
together. The lion and the goose represent strength and prudence; the lion and
eagle, strength and dominion; the lion and dove, strength and gentleness. We
may see these double emblems on Sicilian textiles.
[122] Chinese art is crowded with symbolisms.
[123] The double-headed eagle was the badge of Saladin, as well as that of the
Holy Roman Empire.
[124] Ezekiel xvii.

[125] In the earliest days of Christianity.
[126] “A cloud pattern from which issue two clasped hands is the device of
Guizot Marchand or Guido Mercator, printer, in 1498. He lived at the College of
Navarre.”—Dibdin’s “Decameron,” ii. pp. 33-36.
[127] See Gori (tom. iii. pp. 20, 84), as cited by Rock, Introduction, p. liii. The
same netted pattern was found in the grave of an Archbishop of York of about
the end of the thirteenth century. Its name, fundata, is derived from funda, the
fisherman’s net; also, in later times, it was called laqueata. See Rock’s
Introduction (p. liv.). See also M. Ch. Clermont Ganneau’s “L’Imagerie
Phénicienne,” Coupe de Palestrina; and Chaldée et Assyrie, in Perrot and
Chipiez, ii. p. 736. Another instance is shown here of the fundata occurring in
the bronze flat bowl copied from Layard’s “Monuments,” 2nd series, plate 62.
The whole design of the bowl is Babylonian, consisting of a rich border of
repetitions of the tree of life; each has the peculiar ornament of little knobs often
seen on their head-dresses.
[128] See Bock’s “L. Gewänder,” p. 129; Gori, “Thes. Dipt.” ii. pp. 20, 275;
Marquardt, “Handbuch Röm. Alt.” vii. pp. 527-31 (Eng. Trans.). Authorities
differ in describing the Chrysoclavus. Sir G. Birdwood calls it a button pattern
(“Indian Arts,” vol. ii. p. 241). The “Chrysoclavus” was the name given to the
palmated or triumphal pattern with which the consular robes are invariably
embroidered in the Roman Consular ivories at Zurich, Halberstadt, and in the
South Kensington Museum. The tenacious life of this pattern is curiously shown
in the way it appears in the fifteenth century on Italian playing-cards. (See
“Cartes à Jouer,” an anonymous French book in the print-room of the British
Museum.) The kings and knaves wear the Byzantine humeral, and the
Chrysoclavus pattern is carved on their chairs. Till lately English playing-cards
showed the same dress-pattern. I shall discuss the Latin Clavus and the
Chrysoclavus amongst ecclesiastical embroideries, pp. 308, 336 (post).
[129] See Wilkinson’s “Ancient Egyptians,” i. p. 125. The date of these mural
paintings may, however, be even as late as the time of Alexander the Great.

CHAPTER IV.
MATERIALS.

1. RAW MATERIALS.

The history of an art must, more or less, include that of its raw material.
This is too true to be disputed, but in the art of embroidery it opens out such
endless avenues, through such vast regions of technical study, that we must
acknowledge the difficulty, or rather the impossibility, of including in one
volume even a tithe of the information already collected.
I shall, therefore, only dedicate a few pages to the history of those fibres
which have always been most important in the different phases of our
civilization.
Among books on textile materials, I must again name the “Textrinum
Antiquorum,” by Yates. His premature death, and the loss that the world of
art and manufacture has sustained by the chain of his invaluable researches
being broken, cannot be appreciated but through the study of the first and
only volume of this already rare book, from which I venture to quote
largely.
Semper’s “Der Stil” is a work of reference on this subject, so valuable that
it should, by a good translation, be placed within the reach of non-German
scholars.
From Colonel Yule’s “Marco Polo,” and his abundant notes, we learn much
of Asiatic textile art in the thirteenth century, and its early traditions in the
immutable East, and Sir G. Birdwood’s books on this Indian art are most
instructive.
Egyptian textiles are splendidly illustrated by Sir Gardiner Wilkinson. All
these modern writers quote Pliny and the Periplus;[130] and Pliny quotes all

the classic authors, from Homer to his day. Here is a wide field for
gathering information regarding the materials for embroidery in past ages.
When we use the phrase “raw material” so glibly, with an æsthetic contempt
for that which the art of man has neither manipulated nor reorganized, we
show our own coarse appreciation, if not ignorance, of the wonderful
inherent beauty and microscopic delicacy of form, colour, and substance of
those materials which we fashion for our own uses.
Few know the structure of the tender filaments of wool, flax, cotton, and
silk; or that each has its peculiar form and attributes, and its individual
capabilities for the purposes for which they appear to us to have been
created, i.e. the clothing and adornment of man’s dress and his home.
I should like to draw attention to these well-attested facts.
Seen through a microscope, the forms of these raw materials differ greatly.
Flax is difficult to describe, as it varies according to the soil and climate it
comes from. Its fibre, however, has always a shiny outer surface, and is
transparent, cylindrical, and pipe-like; apparently with breaks or joints like
those of a cane.
Cotton also varies so much in its own kind, that every description is
different and somewhat puzzling. Semper says that it approaches the ribbon
form, with thickened edges, and is like a half-cylinder twisted spirally; but
when wetted with oil, it swells into a complete cylinder.[131]
Wool and hair are hollow pipes without joints. Woollen fibres look like
cylindrical snakes with a scaly surface. This roughness gives wool a
clinging power which exceeds that of any other material, except the hair of
some few animals.[132]
Silk threads consist of twin pipes laid parallel, and held together by the
varnish with which they are glazed. Silk is tough and elastic.
The qualities needed for textile materials may be thus enumerated:
Pliability, toughness (i.e. tensile strength), and intrinsic durability.
Of course, the material must to a certain degree influence the style of the
fabric, and its selection must be according to the effect intended to be

produced.[133] The fashions of the day, and the needs of the special
manufacture, must greatly modify the choice of materials, which fluctuate,
often disappear, and sometimes revive again.
Certain materials which have been, at one period, much admired, have been
entirely lost; and indeed we may say that the only permanently employed
textiles are wool, flax, cotton, and silk, which apparently never can be
superseded. With them, all domestic requirements can be satisfied, and all
artistic and decorative fabrics produced, varied, and perfected; and these,
from all time recorded in history, have been enriched and glorified with
gold, either inwoven or embroidered.
The game of “animal, vegetable, or mineral” might well be played with
textiles only. Nothing has been alien to the crafts which from time
immemorial have spun, woven, felted, netted, and embroidered.
The materials now in general use, and which, once known, have never been
abandoned, I have already named, and shall discuss their history separately;
they are wool, flax, cotton, and silk. To these I must add hemp, both wild
and cultivated.
Hemp is a kind of nettle. It was grown in Colchis, and in those cool regions
which did not produce flax. Hemp is hardly grown in India, except to
extract from it the narcotic, Cannabis Indica. It was a northern production
used throughout Scandinavia. Herodotus (iv. 14) says, “Hemp grows in the
land of the Scythians, in a wild state, but it is now cultivated.” From its
Latin name, cannabis, comes our canvas, which has always been much used
as a ground for counted stitches and backing for embroidery, its stiffness
being its qualification for such purposes.[134]
Jute (a rough sort of hemp) has been long an article of commercial
importance for the manufacture of coarse-figured fabrics, dyed and woven,
sometimes embroidered.
The fibre of the Aloe has been used in the Riviera for laces and “macrami”
(knotted fringes).
The fibres of grasses, such as the “Honduras silk grass” (Rhea or Ramie),
valuable for beauty, fineness, and toughness, have been worked or woven
into stuffs.[135] This material is now coming into notice.

Spartum is often named for coarse weaving;[136] also the fibres of barks,
especially those of palm branches.[137]
Another substance of classic use, and even now employed, though rather as
a curiosity than as an article of commerce, is the silky filament produced by
the shell-fish pinna; and also the fibres of certain sea-weeds.
Fur and hair, especially that of camels and goats, has always been much
prized.[138] We have seen both African and Indian striped or primitively
decorated rugs of wool, touched here and there with scraps of cotton or silk,
or some other odd material; and amongst them, tufts of human hair. The
sentiment that motived the use of human hair has been either love or hate—
the votive or the triumphal. We know that Delilah was not a stranger to this
art. She wove into her web Samson’s seven locks of strength, and “fastened
them with a pin” (Judges xvi.).
In the thirteenth century it was the custom for ladies to weave their own
hair into their gifts to favoured knights. King Ris, if he had received any
such token from his lady-love, returned it with interest; for he sent her a
mantle in which were inwoven the beards of nine conquered kings, a tenth
space being left for that of King Arthur, which he promised to add in course
of time.[139]
Leather has been from the remotest antiquity employed for the art of
embroidery, either for the ground, as in the mantle of Boadicea, made of
skins with the fur turned inwards and the leather outside, dressed, and
embroidered on the seams;[140] or else as fine inlaid and onlaid application,
as in the “funeral tent of an Egyptian queen” in the museum at Boulac,
which is certainly the earliest specimen of needlework decoration that
exists.[141] (Pl. 44.) The old Indian embroideries in leather are generally
applied one on another. The North American Indians also embroider on
leather.[142]
Feather work will be discussed under the heading of “Opus
Plumarium.”[143]
On the surface of textiles many substances have been fastened down, in
order to give brilliancy to the general effect—skins of insects, beetles’
wings, the claws and teeth of various animals.[144]

Asbestos linen is the only mineral substance, besides gold, silver, and tin,
[145] that has been employed in embroidery. It has the remarkable quality of
indestructibility by fire. Asbestos linen can be cleansed by fire instead of
water.[146] It is a soapy crystal, found in veins of serpentine and cipolino in
Cyprus, and other Greek islands. Pliny says it was woven for the funeral
obsequies of monarchs, as it preserved the ashes apart, being itself
unharmed by the fires of cremation. There are several fragments existing,
found in tombs. One of these is in the British Museum.[147]
Marco Polo speaks of a stone fibre found at Chinchin, which answers in
description to asbestos. It was spun by mixing it with threads of flax soaked
in oil; and when woven, was passed through the fire to remove the flax and
the oil.[148]
A miraculous napkin of asbestos was long kept at Monte Casino.
Coral, pearls, and beads of many forms have been used for the enrichment
of embroideries, and for decorating textiles. The whole surface of the
original fabric has often been entirely covered with them, or the pattern
itself has been worked in nothing else. Pearls are constantly seen worked on
dress, coats-of-arms, and embroidered portraits. Seed pearls, large coarse
pearls, and sometimes fine and precious ones, were surrounded with gold
thread embroidery. Coral was so much used in Sicilian embroideries, and so
little elsewhere, that one gives the name of “Sicilian” to all such work; but
occasionally we find coral embroideries in Spain and elsewhere (Pl. 32).

Pl. 32.

See larger image

Portion of Dalmatic embroidered by Blanche, Queen of Charles IV. of
Bohemia (fifteenth century).
The figures in pearls, on a background of beaten gold. Bock’s
“Liturgische Gewänder.” Vol. i. taf. xi.

Beads of glass were common in Egypt from the earliest times, strung
together by threads so as to form breastplates rather than necklaces. Whence
beads originally came we cannot tell, but it seems that the Phœnicians
dropped them on all the shores of the world. Then, as now, savages had a
passion for beads, and civilized men and women still admire them as
trimmings. In the Middle Ages they were sometimes worked into pictures.
[149]

In as far as materials are essential to the art of embroidery, I must restrict
myself to the history of silk, wool, flax, cotton, and gold. With these all the
finest works have been executed for the artistic adornment of dress and
hangings. All other materials have been occasional experiments, or else
were resorted to in the absence or ignorance of the above five most
important factors in our domestic civilization. The history of wool must
take precedence as being that of the original, if not the first, of textile
materials.

2. WOOL.

The wool of sheep and the hair of goats were used very early in the world’s
history for clothing, and probably also for hangings. The earliest
civilizations plaited, span,[150] wove, and felted them.
There is no reason to suppose that goats and sheep preceded the creation of
man. No early fossils record them. Our sheep are supposed by zoologists to
be descended from the Argali or Ovis Ammon of Linnæus, inhabiting the
central regions of Asia.[151]
It is possible that plaited grasses may have preceded wool. But though
certain prehistoric specimens are supposed to have been found in Spain, yet
of this there is but imperfect proof.
The pastoral tribes wandering over those fair regions that extend from
Khotan to Arabia, following their flocks and herds, and studying where best
to feed, increase, and multiply them, and obtain from them the finest texture
of wool, are spoken of nowhere more than in the collected books of the Old
Testament, open to us all; and there we learn how important a place these
shepherds held in the world’s civilization. “Watching their flocks by night,”
they watched the stars also, and they were astronomers; seeking the best
pastures and fodder, they learned to be botanists, florists, and
agriculturalists. They became also philosophers, poets, prophets, and kings.
[152] Job and his country were enriched through the breeding of sheep. The
seven daughters of Jethro, the High-priest, tended their father’s flocks.
The Arabians were always great breeders of sheep. The Greeks and
Romans, from Homer to Virgil, sang of the herdsman’s life. Our Lord
Himself did not disdain to be called “the Good Shepherd.”[153]
The merchants who traded from the Arabian Gulf to Egypt, and across
thence to the shores of the Mediterranean, and the Phœnicians of Sidon who
brought overland their bales of raw material and manufactured Oriental
fabrics, knew well where to find the best goods for their customers; and we
hear frequently whence came this or that coloured wool. Chemmis, the city
of Pan, retained its celebrity in the woollen trade down to the conquest of
Egypt by the Romans. Nineveh and Babylon encouraged the manufactures
and commerce in woollen tents, wall-hangings, and carpets. Nowhere were
they so richly embroidered.[154]

Solomon purchased woollens from Egypt. Damascus supplied the Tyrians
with wool for their rugs. The stuffs and textile fabrics of wool, of the
Chinese, Assyrians, and Chaldeans, are recorded in the earliest writings of
the human race. How much their decoration depended on weaving, and how
much on embroidery, we cannot tell. The products of the Babylonian looms
are alluded to in the Book of Joshua,[155] and also by Ezekiel.[156]
Assyrian stuffs were always celebrated for their splendid colours and
various designs; among which were hunting scenes, battles, and special
emblematic adornments.[157]
From Miletus came the wool valued most highly by the Greeks. Spain
produced the best black, and the north of Italy the best white wool. The
Narbonensian and Egyptian wools were supposed to be the most durable,
and when they became shabby, were dipped again and served another
generation.
From Yates’ account of the great variety of wools, remarkable for their fine
texture, their whiteness,[158] their blackness,[159] or their redness, their cool
or their warm tints, it is evident that the ancients valued highly these
different qualities.[160] The cloths that were of greatest account were of the
finest or the warmest kinds. The sheep of Miletus, Attica, Megaris, and
Tarentum were clothed in jackets, in order to preserve the fineness and
whiteness of their own coats, and to protect them from being torn by the
thorny bushes in their pastures. Columella calls them the “covered” and the
“soft,” and says they were often kept in the house.
We find notices of the peculiarities of the various national breeds, caused by
the soil on which their pasture grew, and the rivers and streams at which
they drank, and these peculiarities were, if possible, encouraged. There is
evidence also that some improvement of the breeds by crossing was
practised in early times.
As in all the life of the Greeks, the religious element had much influence in
perfecting their flocks of sheep—only the most beautiful animals were
considered worthy of sacrifice to the gods.
A few of the rare specimens of stuffs which have been rescued from tombs,
especially in the Crimea, and in the Fayoum, in Egypt, show a wool so fine

and shining that it might be taken for silk, and the beauty of the weaving is
marvellous, and much varied in style.
A warrior’s tomb in the district of Kuban contained a funeral pall, covering
the sarcophagus, measuring at least three metres and a half each way,
woven of brown wool, in twelve narrow strips sewn together and afterwards
painted. The ground is yellowish, the design brown. The figures repeat
mythical subjects, and alternate with patterns, and there is a border. One
strip contains a scene from the story of Peleus and Thetis. Apparently this is
Attic design. The coloured dresses worn by women of rank, and hung on
the statues of the gods, were sometimes painted, sometimes stamped, and
often embroidered, and they were nearly all of woollen fabrics.
One of the great advantages of wool is its power of absorbing colour, as the
pigment sinks into its very fibre, instead of clinging to the surface. It can be
dyed of deeper colours than flax, cotton, or silk.
Pliny tells us that Tanaquil combed, span, and wove her wool, and she
herself made the royal mantle which Servius Tullius used to wear, and it
was covered with a wavy pattern (undulata). Thence came the custom that
when a maiden became a bride, her attendants carried a distaff trimmed
with combed wool, and a spindle with yarn upon it. The robes worked by
Tanaquil were dedicated by Servius Tullius to the statue of Fortune in her
temple at Rome, and were still hanging there in the days of Tiberius.[161]
Pliny remarks that it was a wonder that it neither fell from the image, nor
was eaten by the moths, during five hundred and sixty years.
He gives us interesting details of the weaving of woollen cloths, and speaks
of the thick coarse wool with “great thick hair,” used for carpets from the
time of Homer. The same passage mentions felt. He tells us of the cloths
with a curly nap, used in the days of Augustus; of the “papaverata” woven
with flowers resembling poppies; and we hear from him of the cloth of
divers colours woven in Babylon, and called thence Babylonica; and the
Alexandrian webs, with many-coloured threads (polymita)[162], comparing
them with those made in Gaul; and those woven by the Parthians.[163]
We have already said that the wool of Miletus was a proverbial favourite
with the Greeks. Eustathius speaks of the excellence of the Milesian carpets

and hangings. Virgil represents the virgins of Cyrene spinning Milesian
wool dyed of a deep sea-green.[164]
In the British Museum is a fragment of Egyptian woollen or worsted
embroidery on white linen, discoloured by its use as mummy wrapping; but
the stitches of worsted remain a perfectly clear bright crimson and indigo
blue. This shows how wool absorbs the colour and retains it. Even when the
surface is faded, it can be made to emit it again by chemical processes.
In tombs in the Crimea have been found variously woven and adorned
woollen fabrics. There are fragments resembling in their texture a fine rep
—a sort of corded stuff; another material resembling a woollen crêpe, or
fine “nun’s gauze.” This veiled a golden wreath. Then there is a stuff like
what is now called “atlas”—a kind of woollen satin. Some woollens are
woven simply like linen; some are wide, some very narrow, sewn together
in strips, woven in meandering designs. One, like a piece of Gobelin
tapestry, has a border of ducks with yellow wings and dark green heads and
throats,[165] and then another with a pattern of stags’ heads. This description
recalls the specimens on plate 16 and plate 39.
From these tombs are collected stuffs of wool, woven and embroidered in
gold with combinations of many colours; and, in fact, through this
collection, now placed in the Museum at St. Petersburg, we become aware
that 300 B.C. the Greeks had learned all the secrets of the art of weaving
wool. They, however, lost it, and it is only in India that its continuity was
never broken. Indian looms still weave, of the finest fleeces, such shawls of
Babylonian design as repeat the texture of the ancient Greek garments. But
were they Greek? or did those beautiful woven fabrics come from Persia or
India?[166]
The first we know of Scandinavian wool for dress, is a fragment from a
Celtic barrow in Yorkshire—a woollen plaited shroud. This fabric was an
advance upon the original northern savage costume—a sheep-skin
fashioned and sewn with a fish-bone for a needle, sinews for thread, and a
thorn for a pin. But we must imagine that some use was made, besides
plaiting, of the spun wool, of which the early northern women have left us
evidence, in the whorls of their spindles, from prehistoric times.

Wool has always appeared to be a natural material for dress. It is warm in
winter, light in summer, and is always beautiful as it hangs in lovely soft
draperies, heavy enough to draw the fabric into graceful curved lines, and
yet capable of yielding to each movement in little rippling folds, covering,
but not concealing the forms to which they cling. Classical draperies are
explained by it. What the Italians call the “eyes of the folds,” are
particularly beautiful in woollens, and lend themselves to sculpturesque art.
The other natural use of wool is for carpets. We have the evidence of the
imitations, in mosaic, of carpets from the stone floors in Nineveh (now in
the British Museum), that the art of weaving large and small rugs, and the
principles of composition for such purposes was at that date well
understood. The carpet-weaving traditions of Babylon appear to have been
inherited by the occupiers of the soil, as it is supposed that the Saracens
learned from Persia the art of weaving pile carpets, and imported thence
craftsmen into Spain. We can trace Persian carpet patterns in Indian floor
coverings. The Greeks called them tapetes; and the Latins adopted the
name; and hence the Italian tapeti, French tapis, and our word tapestry.
As artistic material, to which the world owes much beauty and comfort,
woollens have always played a great part in the decorations of our houses,
as of our garments. Fabrics have been made of them of every description,
from the cheapest and commonest to the most refined; but if woollen stuffs
are to be beautiful, they must be fine, and worked or embroidered by hand.
Woollens brocaded or figured are not so effective as silken hangings.
Woollen velvets are without light, dull and heavy. Still, even amongst our
English fabrics, there have always been varieties of texture[167] and
adaptations to different effects, and some are beautiful.
Worsted thread, so called from Worsted, in Norfolk, where the materials for
weaving and embroidering are manufactured, has always been very
important in embroidery. Worsteds after a time gave way to a very beautiful
material, called “German wool,” which again has yielded the supremacy to
“crewels”[168] (resembling the old worsteds). These crewels are nearly the
same in substance and in their loose texture as the threads prepared from
wool for tapestry weaving.

We may claim, in England, the superiority in this manufacture, though we
are constantly receiving from France novelties which give us good hints,
and urge us to keep pace with the science of the Gobelins in their woollen
dyes. The French, in return, employ our wools, especially those of
Lincolnshire, in their tapestry workshops.
The wool and hair of goats should be a study by itself. They have from the
earliest times been used in India for the finest and softest fabrics, such as
the lovely shawls of Cashmere and the neighbouring provinces. Cloth of
Tars in the Middle Ages is supposed to be what is now called Cashmere.

3. FLAX.

Boyd Dawkins tells us that “The art of spinning and the manufacture of
linen were introduced into Europe in the Neolithic age, and have been
preserved with little variation from that period to the present day, in certain
remote parts of Europe, having only been superseded in modern times by
the complicated machinery so familiar to us. The spindle and distaff, or
perforated spindle whorls, are of stone, pottery, or bone, such as are
constantly found in Neolithic tombs and habitations. Thread from the Swiss
lake cities is proved to be of flax, and there is evidence of weaving in some
sort of loom.”[169]
The meaning of the word Byssus has been disputed; some authorities
asserting that it includes both flax and cotton fabrics. Without the aid of the
microscope, the dispute as to whether the material of the Egyptian mummy
wrappings was cotton or flax, or a mixture of the two, would never have
been settled; but now that the difference of the structure of each has been
clearly ascertained, we know that cotton was never employed in Egypt,
except for certain domestic uses. The mummy wrappings are entirely linen.
Cotton was forbidden for the priests’ dress in the temple, though they might
wear it when not on duty.[170]
There are specimens of Egyptian painted or printed patterns on fine linen in
the British Museum;[171] and it is curious to see in Egyptian mural paintings
the same patterned chintzes on furniture that were common a hundred years
ago in England. Both must have come from India, and therefore were
certainly cotton fabrics.

Herodotus says the mummy cloths were of “byssine sindon,” which may be
translated “linen cloth.”[172] Cotton he calls “tree wool.”
Yates has carefully argued the whole question, and, we think, has proved
that byssus was flax, and not cotton. [173] He quotes Philo, who certainly
must have believed that it was made of flax, from the description he gives
of its appearance and qualities, which in no way apply to cotton or hemp.
He says that “The Jewish high priests wore a linen garment of the purest
byssus—which was a symbol of firmness, incorruption, and of the clearest
splendour, for fine linen is very difficult to tear. It is made of nothing
mortal, and becomes brighter and more resembling light, the more it is
cleansed by washing.”[174]
Here is another quotation: “Cloth of byssus symbolizes firm faith. Its
threads surpass even ropes of broom in firmness and strength.”[175] Pliny
says the flax grown in Egypt was superior to any other, and it was exported
to Arabia and India.[176] The first known existing fragment of flax linen in
Europe was taken from the tomb of the Seven Brothers in the Crimea. Its
date is 300 B.C.
In Solomon’s time the Jews evidently depended upon Egypt for their fine
linen. Herodotus describes the corselet of Amasis, the fineness of the linen,
and the embroidered decorations of men and animals, partly gold and partly
tree wool (i.e. cotton).[177]
All the finest linen certainly came then from Egypt, and was much finer
than any that is now made. That we call cambric, was woven there many
centuries before it was made in Cambray.[178]
Through the Phœnicians the fine linen came to Rome, as appears from the
following notice of embroidery on linen by Flavius Vopiscus, in his “Life of
the Emperor Carinus:” “Why should I mention the linen cloths brought
from Tyre and Sidon, which are so thin as to be transparent, which glow
with purple, or are prized on account of their laborious embroideries?”[179]
The history of a fine embroidered linen curtain for a Roman house might
have been this:—Grown in Egypt; carried to Nomenticum (Artois), and
there woven; taken to India to be embroidered, and thence as merchandise
to Rome.

While flax was making its way northward, the Celts must also have taken it
across Europe from their resting-place, after emigrating from the East. The
word linen—lin-white—is a Celtic epithet, whereas flax is an Anglo-Saxon
word.[180]
The Atrebates wove linen in Artois, 1800 years ago. Jerome speaks of their
“indumenta,” or shirts of fine linen; and the great weavers of to-day are still
the Flemish descendants of the Atrebates. Their Celtic descent is witnessed
in the Irish by their superiority in the crafts of the loom.
The fine laces of Venice, France, and Belgium are all of linen, i.e. flaxen
thread. Clearness and strength in these delicate fabrics cannot be obtained
with cotton, which, especially when it is washed, swells and fluffs, and
never has the radiant appearance and purity of flax.
Embroidery is always a natural accompaniment of fine linen. Those that are
still preserved to us from early and Middle-Age times are nearly all on
linen, if not on silk. The woollen fragments are very few and imperfect.
They have been invariably “fretted” by the moth.
White needle embroidery is mostly worked in linen-thread, though cotton-
thread has been used a great deal, and is very fit for the purpose.

4. COTTON.

Cotton was native to India,[181] as flax was to Egypt. It not only was grown,
woven, and printed there from the remotest antiquity, but was cultivated
nowhere else. The Egyptians do not appear to have grown it till the
fourteenth century A.D., though they had long imported it as raw material,
and as plain and printed webs.[182] It was called tree-wool.
It was first woven in Italy in the thirteenth century, and used for making
paper; and in the sixteenth, the plant was grown in the south of Europe.
From Italy it was carried into the Low Countries, and only reached England
in the seventeenth century,[183] so lately has the great staple of our
manufactures first belonged to us.
The fibre of cotton has neither the strength nor the durability of flax or silk,
but it is the third in the group of the most universally qualified materials for

all purposes of domestic textile art, ranging from carpets and sails, to fine
chintzes for dress, and filmy muslins. The cloudy effect of these delicate
fabrics is their own peculiar beauty. Muslins for hangings, printed or
embroidered, have always been a luxury from India; they were called
“carbasa,” and were much esteemed in Rome as a protection against the
sun.[184]
But we have much earlier notice of them, as being the curtains described in
the Book of Esther, hung with silver rings to the pillars of marble in the
banqueting hall at Susa or Shushan: “blue and white muslin” (i.e. carpas,
[185] mistranslated “green” in the Authorized Version), “fastened with cords
of fine linen and purple.”
The word “carbasina” occurs in a play by Statius, evidently translated from
a writer of the new Greek comedy period. It may be inferred, therefore, that
the Greeks used cotton 200 B.C.[186] A century before, Nearchus (one of
Alexander’s admirals) speaks of the cotton-trees in India as if they were a
new discovery. Yates gives us many quotations from Latin classical authors,
proving the common use of cotton. Its Latin name was bambacinum, from
bombax, hence the Italian bambagio, bambagino, bambasino.
The variety of cotton fabrics in India is very numerous, each having its
distinctive beauties and qualities inherited by tradition from early times.
They are enumerated and described in Sir G. Birdwood’s “Arts of India.”
Almost all of them have been made to carry embroideries—the transparent
muslins, [187] as well as the fine cloths, and the stronger and thicker fabrics.
[188]

Most old English houses contain some hangings of thickly woven cotton,
probably Indian, worked in crewel or worsted, of the time of James I., or a
little earlier; and beautiful patterns wrought in silk or thread, on fine cotton
linen, reminding one of the arabesques of the Taj Mahal, succeeded those of
the Jacobean style.
Transparent muslins were often embroidered in gold and silver, or spangled
and embossed with beetles’ wings; and gold, silver, and silk were lavished
on Indian cotton grounds, as well as on silken stuffs. Linen was not much
embroidered in India, but often printed like chintz.

Buckram, or plush of cotton, was certainly imported from the East to
England, from the thirteenth century to the time of Elizabeth. There is at
Ashridge, in Hertfordshire, a small jacket of very fine cotton-plush amongst
the baby linen prepared by Elizabeth for the expected heir of Philip and
Mary, and there are other small dresses of this material of the date of James
I. A similar material called fustian is also named by Marco Polo as a cotton
fabric; it is supposed to have been made in Egypt by the Arabs. This sort of
cotton-plush, variously manipulated, is repeatedly mentioned by Herr
Graf’schen in his “Catalogue of Egyptian Textiles from the Fayoum.”
Plano Carpini says the tunics of the Tartars were “bacramo,” or else of
baudichin (cloth of gold). Falstaff’s “men in buckram” may be thus
explained.[189]
I have already said that cotton is inferior in its qualities to silk and flax,
except in the production of transparent muslins. Its peculiarity is its
tendency to “crinkle” or crumple in wearing, therefore it does not present a
smooth flat surface, except by means of dressing, which unfits it for
clinging effects but suits printed patterns. Such stuffs as workhouse
sheeting, imitating certain fabrics of the sixteenth century, and which it has
been the fashion of late to cover with embroidery, do not repay, by effective
beauty, the trouble bestowed upon them.

5. GOLD.

A somewhat profane French writer, giving his ideas on the Creation, says
that gold, the latest metal, was expressly created for the demoralization of
mankind. This is an ugly version of the fact that it is found on the surface of
the earth’s crust, and that its beauty and worth makes it a desirable
possession for which men will ever contend.
Gold adorns every work of the artistic animal—man. It is the most
becoming setting to all other beautiful things, the most gorgeous reflection
of light and colour, the richest and softest background, the most harmonious
medium for high lights. In all works of decoration it represents sunshine
where it is not, and doubles it where it is. The word “illumination” in books
belongs to the gilded illustrations of immortal thoughts.

In embroideries, as grounding or as pattern, gold gives the glory: “Her
clothing is of wrought gold.” The raiment of needlework is comparatively
ineffective without golden lights or background. As colour, it never can
offend the eye, except when used to accentuate aggressively a vulgar
pattern, or when it flashes and dazzles from over-polish and too lavish
expenditure.
Silver follows gold as a splendid element in decoration,[190] but it is not of
such universal application and use; and when employed together, the
proportion of gold should preponderate. Golden tissues belong to the
earliest civilizations.
Sir G. Birdwood says that “The art of gold brocades is older than the Code
of Manu.... The excellence of the art passed in the long course of ages, from
one place to another; and Babylon, Tarsus, Alexandria, Baghdad,
Damascus, Antioch, Tabriz, Sicily, and Tripoli successively became
celebrated for their gold and silver-wrought tissues, silks, and brocades....
Through every disguise (and mingling of style) it is not impossible to infer
the essential identity of the brocades with the fabrics of blue, purple, and
scarlet, worked in gold, of ancient Babylonian art.”[191]
The Israelites wove gold with their coloured woollens for the use of the
sanctuary, and probably brought the art from Egypt; though I am not aware
of any gold-woven stuffs from Egyptian tombs.[192]
Indian and Chinese stuffs were from time immemorial woven with gold.
The historians of Alexander the Great continually name gold as a material
in dress.[193] Arrian, Justin, and Quintus Curtius, all speak of golden tissues
as part of the luxury of the East.
We hear of Darius’ dress woven with golden hawks; and of the golden
spoils of Persepolis; the dresses worn by Alexander’s generals, and all his
attendants clothed in purple and gold. Then, perhaps, the Babylonian
tradition was brought to Europe; and ever after, purple and gold became the
state apparel for courtiers as well as kings.[194]
The hangings of scarlet, purple, and gold used at the nuptials of Alexander,
and at his funeral, and his pall of the same material, point to the fact that

gold was a recognized element in splendid textile weaving, as well as in the
earliest ornamental embroideries.[195]
Attalus II., king of Pergamus, was credited with being the inventor of gold
weaving, but this must have been a mistake, as it was practised long before
his time; but he may have devised some splendid golden tissues, which
were called “Attalic,” in honour of the king’s patronage.[196] As, however,
the gold flat plate or wire was probably that woven before his time,[197] it is
possible that he may have invented or patronized the making of thread of
gold, by twining it round flax or cotton.[198]
Pliny says gold may be woven or spun like wool without any admixture of
wool or flax,[199] and he quotes as examples the golden garment of
Agrippina, and that worn by Tarquinius Priscus, mentioned by Verrius.
It appears that the Egyptians knew the art of drawing gold wire, as some
pieces have been found in their jewellery;[200] but we know not by what
process it was worked, either then, or in the dark ages.
A mechanic of Nuremberg, in the fourteenth century, invented a machine
for the purpose; and this art of drawing wire was introduced into England
200 years later, in 1560.
The pure cut gold was in use in Rome to a late date.[201] St. Cecilia,
martyred 230 A.D., was buried with her golden mantle lying at her feet; and
in 821, when Pope Pascal opened her grave, he found the evidence of her
martyrdom in that splendid garment, showing that it had been soaked in
blood.[202]
There were found under the foundations of the new Basilica of St. Peter’s,
the bodies of Probus Anicius and his wife, Proba Faltonia, in a wrapping of
gold.
Dr. Rock gives us more examples,[203] but we will only add that of the wife
of the Emperor Honorius, who in the year 400 A.D. was buried in a golden
dress, which in 1544 was removed from her grave, and being melted,
weighed 36 lbs.[204]
The Anglo-Saxon tomb opened at Chessell Down, in the Isle of Wight,
contained fragments of a garment or wrapping woven with flat gold “plate.”

These remains are now in the British Museum.
Childeric was buried at Tournai, 485 A.D., and his dress of strips of pure
gold was discovered and melted in 1653. But gold thread also was then
very generally used in weaving gold tissues.
Claudian describes a Christian lady, Proba, in the fourth century, preparing
the consular robes for her two sons on their being raised to the consulate:
[205]—

“The joyful mother plies her knowing hands,
And works on all the trabea golden bands;
Draws the thin strips to all the length of gold,
To make the metal meaner threads enfold.”

Pure gold was woven in the dark ages in England. St. Cuthbert’s maniple at
Durham is of pure gold thread. John Garland says the ladies wove golden
cingulæ in the thirteenth century; and Henry I., according to Hoveden, was
clothed in a robe of state of woven gold and gems of almost “divine
splendour.”[206]
A wrapping of beautiful gold brocade covered the coffin of Henry III. when
his tomb was opened in 1871.[207]
The cope of St. Andrew at Aix, in Switzerland, is embroidered in a very
simple pattern, with large circles containing St. Andrew’s crosses.[208] This
is worked in silver wire gilt, and is Byzantine of the twelfth century.
In the writings of the Middle Ages we find constant reference to different
golden fabrics. Among them are “samit” or “examitur” (a six-thread silk
stuff, preciously inwoven with gold threads);[209] and “ciclatoun,”[210]
which was remarkable for the lightness of its texture, and was woven with
shining gold threads—but though light, it was stiff enough to carry heavy
embroidery. We hear also of “baudekin,” “nak,” and cloth of pall.
“Camoca” is “kincob.”
There appears to be a link between embroidery in gold and the jewellers’
work which in the Dark and Middle Ages was so often applied to
ecclesiastical and royal dress and hangings. This link was beaten gold work,
“aurobacutos,” “beaten work,” or “batony.”[211] Beauchamp, Earl of
Warwick in the time of Henry VI., went over to France, having a “coat for
my lord’s body, beat with fine gold (probably heraldic designs). For his
ship, a streamer forty yards long and eight broad, with a great bear and
griffin, and 400 ‘pencils’ with the ‘ragged staff’ in silver.” This mode lasted
some time; for in 1538, Barbara Mason bequeathed to a church a “vestment
of green silk beaten with gold.” Probably this beaten gold was really very
thick gold-leaf laid on the silk or linen ground, as we see still in some
Sicilian and Arab tissues. The embroidered banners taken from Charles le

Téméraire, at Grandson, are finished with broad borders of gilded
inscriptions, such as might be called beaten gold work.[212]
But besides this thick gold-leaf, there was another mode of enriching
embroideries. Laminæ of gold were cut into shapes, and finished the work
by accentuating the design in Eastern embroideries; They are found also in
Greek tombs, and in the Middle Ages they varied from the little golden
spangle to many other forms—circular rings, stars, crescents, moons,
leaves, and solid pendant wedges of gold, all which approached the art of
the goldsmith.

Fig. 19.
Spangles.

Enamel was soon added to the enrichment of these golden spangles, plates,
or discs, which were enlarged to receive a design.[213] Of this style of
embellishment we know none so striking as the saddle in the Museum at
Munich, said to have been taken from a Turkish general in the fifteenth
century. This is Italian of the finest cinque-cento style: blue velvet, covered
with beautiful gold embroidery, and every vacant space filled with spangles
of endless forms, and of precious goldsmiths’ and enamellers’ work. The
Persian stirrups attached to it are of a totally different style of enamelling
and jewellery, and speak for themselves, and for the school they came from.
[214]

Pl. 33.

See larger image

Window Hanging, by Gentil Bellini, from a Portrait of Mahomet II.,
property of Sir H. Layard.

Dr. Rock describes part of a chasuble wrought by Isabella of Spain and her
maids of honour, in which the flowing design is worked out in small
moulded spangles of gold and silver, set so as to overlap each other and
give the effect of scales.
To a late period, gold and silver embroideries, enriched with spangles, have
been lavished on the head-dresses and stomachers of the peasantry
throughout the north of Europe and Switzerland.[215]
Pearls and gems, either threaded like beads, or in golden settings, are to be
studied in the early pictures of the German and French schools; and the
Anglo-Saxons excelled in such enrichments.
Sir Henry Layard has a portrait of the fifteenth century, of the Sultan
Mahomet II., by Gentil Bellini, from which has been copied the
accompanying beautiful embroidered design of a window-hanging.[216] The
grace of the lines, and the delicate taste with which the gems are set in the
work, are a lesson in art (pl. 33).
India sent to Europe more art in gold thread than has ever been produced
amongst us from our own workshops.[217]

The people of Goa, mostly Arabs, embroidered for the Portuguese those
wonderful fabrics, glittering with gold and radiant with colours, which
cover the beds and hang the rooms throughout Portugal and Spain.[218] The
precious metals (often forming the whole grounding) were employed
without stint; the patterns being either embroidered in coloured silks and
gold; or on velvets or satins, with gold alone or mixed with silver.
The fine gold threads for embroidery, which have preserved their brilliancy
for so many centuries, such as we find worked in Charlemagne’s dalmatic,
in Aelfled’s maniple, and in the mitres of Thomas à Becket, are certainly
Oriental. To England they came in the bales of the merchants who brought
us our silk, and even our needles, from India. Later we imported and copied
the different ways of giving effect to inferior metals, and the Spaniard’s gilt
parchment thread reached us from their Moorish manufactories.[219]
Designs were sometimes, in the sixteenth century, worked in gold twisted
with coloured silks, sometimes only stitched down with them. The badges
of the Order of the Dragon, instituted by the Emperor Sigismund, were thus
embroidered, and placed on the cloaks of the knights. The work was so
perfect that it resembled jewels of enamelled gold. Two ancient ones are in
the Museum at Munich.
Gold or silver or base metal wire was, in the later Middle Ages and down to
our own times, much employed in the form of what is called “purl,” i.e.
coiled wire cut into short lengths, threaded on silk, and sewn down.
German, Italian, and English embroideries were often enriched with this
fabric. Sometimes the wire was twisted with coloured silks before it was
coiled. There are beautiful specimens of this work of the days of Queen
Elizabeth.
Still, throughout Europe the best works were carried out with the best
materials, and these always came from the East. But we sometimes find that
the pressure of circumstances has for a time caused the employment of
adulterated metals that have perished; and thus many fine works of art have
been spoiled.[220]
The use of bad materials has therefore been as unfortunate for art as that of
pure gold, which has tempted so many ignorant persons to burn golden
embroideries and tapestries, and melt down the ore they contain. How little

of all that human skill and invention have carefully elaborated is now
preserved to us! To gold and silver textiles their materials have been often a
fatal dower.
It has sometimes puzzled any but the most experienced embroiderers to
distinguish between the stuffs woven with the golden threads on the surface,
and finely brocaded or patterned in the loom; and those other cloths,
embroidered by hand, which have been so manipulated that hardly an atom
of the gold can be detected at the back. This is done by a technical mode of
treating the surface, which is more easily shown than described. The gold is
really drawn into the spaces between the threads of the canvas or linen
grounding, but never pulled through. For many reasons this is an advantage,
and when executed cunningly, as it was in England in the twelfth century, it
is rich, beautiful, lasting, and economical. It is a peculiar mark of the “opus
Anglicanum,” and it is to be seen in the mitre at Munich, where this stitch is
employed on a white satin ground;[221] also in the working of the two
pluvials at San Giovanni Laterano at Rome, and at the Museum at Bologna,
as well as that at Madrid, which are all three English of the thirteenth
century, by design as well as by stitches.
I cannot close this chapter without naming the many schools of gold
embroidery in Belgium, France, Germany, Italy, and Spain. The King of
Bavaria has an establishment for gold work, and this is very finely carried
out, highly raised, and richly designed.[222] In Spain there is also a Royal
School, where stately works are executed.
It is to be regretted that the modern designs are motiveless, and not so
beautiful as the old ones, and it is very difficult to have any ancient piece of
work copied exactly. Little modernisms creep in wherever the pattern has to
be fitted into a new shape; for the accomplished needlewoman is seldom an
artist.
All honour is due to certain manufacturers at Lyons who are working in the
spirit of the old masters, and have been seriously considering how best to
reproduce the beautiful soft surface of the gold thread of which the secret
was lost in the fifteenth century.[223]
The old Chinese flat gold was, about the sixteenth century, superseded by
what was manufactured in Spain, and is no longer imported or, perhaps,

even made.

6. SILK.

The origin and history of silk is learnedly and elaborately discussed in
Yates’ “Textrinum Antiquorum.” He gives us his authorities, and literal
translations for the benefit of the unlearned, who cannot read the original
texts. I have availed myself without hesitation of his quotations, and of the
carefully considered opinions he has drawn from them.
It has been already said that wool and flax preceded silk in Egyptian, Greek,
and Roman manufactures. There is no certain mention of silk in the Books
of the Old Testament.[224] Silk is, however, named in the Code of Manu.[225]
No shred of silk has been found in any Egyptian tomb, nor till lately, and
with one exception only, in those of the Greeks.
Auberville says, “La soie ne fit son apparition en Europe que 300 ans avant
notre ère.”[226]
Pamphile, daughter of Plates, of Cos, is said by Aristotle to have there first
woven silk (300 B.C.). Probably raw silk was brought to Cos from the
interior of Asia, and Pamphile is by some supposed to have “effilèd” the
solid manufactured silks, and woven them again into gauzy webs. Yates
suggests that it is possible that Pamphile obtained cocoons and unwound
them, as the passage in Aristotle may be so interpreted.
The specimen of early silk-weaving which we have above alluded to, was
taken out of the “Tomb of the Seven Brothers” at Kertch, in the Crimea, and
is of the third century B.C. It consists of several bits of very transparent
painted silk. These fragments are an actual and yet a contemporary witness
to the truth of the tradition of Pamphile’s Coan webs, which are of the same
date: possibly they were her handiwork.

Pl. 34.

See larger image

1. Classical Silk. Greek.
(Semper’s “Der Stil,” p.
192.) 2. Classical Silk.
Roman. (Auberville, pl.
4.)

Whether Pamphile’s silk gauzes were the only fine webs of Cos,[227] is a
disputed question. She has the credit of being the first to clothe victorious
generals in triumphal garments, and she has been immortalized by her
cleverness and industry. Both Aristotle and Pliny assert that she first
invented the Coan webs, and that some of them were of silk is undoubted.
The question is, How came it there? whence and by what route? and what
country was its original home and birthplace?
After stating the pros and cons of the question, how and where did silk first
make its appearance, Sir G. Birdwood concludes that both the worm and the
cocoon were known to the Greeks and Romans, by report and rare

specimens, from the time of Alexander’s return from his Indian campaign.
[228]

Of course the remains of these fabrics are extremely scarce; and, in fact,
only two are at present known to me besides the Kertch specimen. The first
is given in Semper’s “Der Stil,” and is evidently classical Greek or Roman;
but the silk material might have been effilèd from an Oriental stuff (pl. 34,
No. 1). The second must have been originally a Roman pattern, modified by
the Persian loom in which it was woven. This may have been a Roman
triumphal robe of the date of Julius Cæsar (pl. 34, No. 2).
It is clear that Chinese silken stuffs were not generally known in Southern
Europe till the time of Julius Cæsar, who displayed a profusion of silks in
some of his splendid theatrical representations.
How silk first arrived from the East is disputed; some say it came by the
Red Sea, and other authorities believe it was brought from China, viâ
Persia, by land.
But it is not necessary that it should have entered our civilization by only
one gate. The Periplus Maris Erythræi makes frequent mention of the trade
in silks, through India, by the Indus to the coasts of the Erythrean Sea. They
were also brought through Bactria to Barygaza, near Surat, from a city
called Thina (China?). The author of the Periplus, of course, refers to some
place in the country vaguely called Serica.[229]
That the trade which brought it into Europe was difficult and limited, is
proved by the fact that silk continued, even as late as the third century of
our era, to be an article of luxury, of which the manufacture and use
continued to be the subject of legal enactments and restrictions, for 600
years after Pamphile’s first essay in silk-weaving in Cos.
“The Seres” was the name given by the ancients to the nation which
produced silk; and it was undoubtedly that accepted for the distant region
now called China, including Corea, and later, the kingdom of Khotan. The
first mention of these people as a distinct nation is by Mela (iii. 7), who
speaks of them as an “honest people, who bring what they have to sell, and
return for their payments.”[230]

The prevailing idea amongst the Greeks was that silk was combed from the
trees. Seneca says:—

“Nor with Mæonian needle mark the web,
Gathered by Eastern Seres from the trees.”

Seneca the Tragedian,
“Herc. Ætæus,”
644.[231]

This was, till lately, believed to be only a fiction, intended to hide the truth
and enhance the value of the new Coan material. But it is now ascertained
that some of the wild silk in China is carried by the silkworm round the
trees, wrapping them up, as it were, in large, untidy cocoons; so that, as
usual, tradition had truth for its foundation.
There was always much mysterious report about the new material.
Dionysius Periegetes tells of a barbarous people called the Seres, who
“renounce the care of sheep and oxen, but who comb the coloured flowers
of the desert, and with them produce woven precious stuffs, of which they
make figured garments, resembling the flowers of the field in beauty, and in
texture the web of the spider.”[232]
There is no doubt that as Egypt was the first to weave linen, and India to
produce cotton textiles, so in China originated the material of silk and its
manufacture.
M. Terrien de la Couperie, who has deciphered the Archaic books of the
Chinese Records, sees there excellent linguistic proofs that the Chinese
nation was originally a fragment of the first Babylonian civilization. He
there finds that when these Accadians arrived on the furthest eastern coast
of Asia, they met with and enslaved an aboriginal race, who already
cultivated the silkworm, and wove and worked its produce, and were called
by them “the Embroiderers.”[233]
This is supposed to have been an historical event contemporary with the life
of Abraham, and, therefore, 5000 years old.

The Chinese say that Tekin or Sin, the son of Japhet, instructed his children
in painting, sculpture, and embroidery, and in the art of preparing silk for
different woven fabrics.[234]
Whether we are justified or not in believing in so very early a date, at any
rate we must remember that it is now ascertained that silk was used in
China 2600 years before our era.
Auberville says there is a legend that the Empress Si-ling-chi[235] (2600
B.C.) had the happy inspiration to invent the unwinding of the cocoon before
the insect cut the threads; and for this discovery she was placed among the
divinities.
Before her time, they had certainly for more than 300 years used the
precious material in its mutilated condition.[236]
Some centuries later the Emperor Chan received tribute in linens and silken
stuffs. Tissues of many colours were painted or richly embroidered.[237]
In the second century A.D., a prince of Khotan,[238] Kiu-sa-tan-na, was
desirous of obtaining from China the eggs of the silkworm, but his request
was refused; and it was prohibited that either eggs of the silkworm or seed
of mulberry-trees should cross the border.
Then the King of Khotan asked for a Chinese princess in marriage, and this
favour being granted, he found means to inform the lady privately that in
her future kingdom she would find no silk to weave or work. The dread of
such an aimless life roused all her womanly instincts. Defiance of the law,
love of smuggling, and the wish to please her husband and benefit her
future people, gave her courage to conceal the eggs and seeds in the folds of
her dress and the meshes of her beautiful hair, and so she carried a most
precious dower into her adopted country.[239] Thus was broken the spell
which for more than 3000 years had confined the secret of China within the
fence of its wonderful wall; and later on, A.D. 530, the eggs were brought to
Byzantium.[240]
From China, therefore, comes our silk.[241] We may say it is traced to the
beginning; but how far back had the archæologist to grope before he could
find it!

I transcribe a few more quotations from Yates’ translations and authorities.
[242]

In the Hippolytus of Euripides, 383, Phædra loquitur:—

“Remove, ye maids, the vests whose tissue glares
With purple and with gold; far be the red
Of Syrian murex; this the shining thread
Which furthest Seres gathers from the boughs.”

Lucan describes the transparent material which veiled Cleopatra’s form:—

“Her snowy breast shines through Sidonian
threads,
First by the comb of distant Seres struck;
Divided then by Egypt’s skilful hand,
And with embroidery transparent made.”

Pliny’s account of silk and its manufacture is mostly fanciful, though
founded on half-known facts.
The Latin poets of the Augustan age speak of silk attire with other luxurious
customs from the East.[243] The Roman senate, in the reign of Tiberius,
decreed that only women should wear silk, on account of its effeminacy.
Silk was accumulated for the wardrobes of the empresses till A.D. 176, when
Marcus Aurelius, “the Philosopher,” sold all the imperial ornaments and the
silken robes of his empress by auction in the Forum of Trajan.[244]
We learn that silk was precious and fabulously esteemed to the end of the
second century A.D.; but it is seldom mentioned in the third century.
Ælius Lampridius speaks of a silken cord with which to hang himself, as an
imperial extravagance on the part of Heliogabalus (and of this only one
strand was silk); and he mentions that Alexander Severus rarely allowed
himself a dress of silk (holosericum), and only gave away robes of partly
silken substance.
Flavius Vopiscus says that Aurelian had no dress wholly of silk
(holosericum).[245] His wife begged him to allow her a shawl of purple silk,

and he replied, “Far be it from me to permit thread to be reckoned worth its
weight in gold!”—for a pound of gold was then worth a pound of silk.
Flavius Vopiscus further states that the Emperor Carinus, however, gave
away silken garments, as well as dresses of gold and silver, to Greek
artificers, players, wrestlers, and musicians.[246]
Yates gives us a translation of an edict of Diocletian, giving a maximum of
prices for articles in common use in the Roman empire. It reads like a
tailor’s or a dress-maker’s bill of to-day:—

DENARII.
To the tailor, for lining a fine vest 6
To the same, for an opening of an edging of silk 50
To the same, for an opening and an edging of a mixed tissue of silk
and flax 30
For an edging of a coarser vest 4[247]

A monument at Tivoli is erected to the memory of his estimable wife,
Valeria Chrysis, by “M. N. Poculus, silk manufacturer.” This was probably
an imperial office in the fourth century.[248]
From the first to the sixth centuries, poets and historians continually speak
of silk,[249] praising its beauty or blaming it as extravagance or luxury; but
according to Yates, all the information we collect from these sources
requires to be tested as to accuracy, and is often erroneous.
I have spoken of the first silk-weaving in Cos, 300 B.C. The first arrival of
the silkworm in Europe was in the sixth century, 900 years later. Cosmas
Indicopleustes and another monk brought eggs from China in the hollow
staves they carried in their hands. This was a great event in European
commerce. The eggs were solemnly presented to the Emperor Justinian, and
the monopoly of their cultivation is to be found in his law-ordaining codex.
[250]

The monopoly of the silk manufactures was confined to the area of the
imperial palace of Constantinople, but the cultivation of the worm gradually
spread over Greece, Asia Minor, and India.

The first allusion to the use of silk in the Christian Church is by Gregory
Nazianzen (A.D. 370), “Ad Hellenium pro Monarchis Carmen:” “Silver and
gold some bring to God, or the fine thread by Seres spun.”[251] Basil
illustrates the idea of the resurrection by the birth of the butterfly from the
cocoon.[252]
Paul the Silentiary (A.D. 562) alludes to the frequent use of silk in the
priests’ vestments at the Church of St. Sophia at Constantinople.
Bede relates that the first Abbot of Wearmouth went to Rome for the fifth
time in A.D. 685, and brought back with him two scarves or palls of
incomparable workmanship, and entirely of silk, with which he purchased
land of three families at the mouth of the Wear. Bede’s own remains were
wrapped in silk.
Auberville gives us, in his “Tissus,” specimens of Roman silks between the
first and seventh centuries, but he cannot fix their exact date.[253]
The finest webs of Holosericum from the imperial looms were generally
bestowed upon the Church, and thus consecrated, the earliest ascertained
specimens that have survived have been preserved; and of these, most have
been found in the tombs of saints, bishops, and kings who were buried in
priestly as well as in royal garments.[254]
Among the silk and satin fabrics, the tissue called “Imperial” is mentioned
by several early English authors. Roger de Wendover and Matthew Paris
describe the apparition of King John as clad in “royal robes of
Imperial.”[255] William de Magna Villa brought from Greece, in 1170, a
stuff called Imperial, “marbled” or variegated, and covered with lions
woven in gold.
In the Eastern Empire, this industry after a time fell into the hands of the
Jews; and in 1161, Benjamin of Tudela says the city of Thebes contained
about 2000 Jewish silk-weavers.
The breeding of the worm in Europe seems to have been confined to Greece
from the time of Justinian to the twelfth century; but in 1148, Roger, King
of Sicily, brought as prisoners of war, from Corinth, Thebes, and Athens,
many silk-weavers, and settled them at Palermo. “Then might be seen
Corinthians and Thebans of both sexes, employed in weaving velvet stoles

interwoven with gold, and serving like the Eretrians of old among the
Persians.”[256]
Hugh Falcandus[257] has left a description of the Royal manufactory at
Palermo, and the Hotel de Tiraz which absorbed all the smaller Saracenic
factories already started. The Hotel de Tiraz had four great workshops, in
which were separately carried on the weaving of plain tissues, velvets,
examits and satins, and flowered stuffs (damasks), and lastly, gold brocades
and embroideries. It was from the last that proceeded the real works of art,
and the embroideries with pearls and precious stones.[258] The highest
efforts of the loom were apparently finished with the needle,[259] as in the
figured textiles of Egypt.
The continuity of Sicilian textile designs from the sixth to the sixteenth
centuries (a thousand years) is very remarkable. Owing to its originally
strongly stamped Oriental character, great knowledge of the arts of
weaving, spinning, and dyeing silk is required to enable any one to assign
an exact date to materials which only remodelled their style three times.
Dr. Rock’s rules for deciphering these three dates may, however, be easily
learned, as they are broad and simple. In his comprehensive “Introduction
to the Textiles in the Kensington Museum” (p. lxvii) he says that the three
defined periods of silk-weaving in Sicily are: First, from the time of
Justinian to the Hohenstaufen (from the sixth to the twelfth century);
secondly, from the accession of Frederick I. (Barbarossa), 1152, to Charles
IV., 1347 (twelfth to fourteenth centuries); the third period is of one century
only, from 1347 to 1456.
The first period especially shows African animals, such as the giraffe and
the different kinds of antelopes, mixed with Arabian mottoes; and the
patterns are generally woven with gold. This is merely gilt parchment, the
silk being mingled with cotton.

Pl. 35.

See larger image

Peacock Pattern. Silk Wrapping on the body of St. Cuthbert. Durham.

The second period, beginning in the twelfth century, shows the arrival of
Count Roger’s Persian and Greek workmen, captives from Thebes, Corinth,
and Athens. The fresh designs show fragments of Greek taste, such as
masks and foliage, and give one a slight foretaste of the Renaissance.[260]
These semi-classical echoes are contemporary in the Sicilian looms with
such Norman motives as a crowned sovereign riding with a hawk upon his
wrist.
This description singularly applies to the relics removed from the tomb of
St. Cuthbert, at Durham, in 1827; among which are fragments of three
wrappings, or garments of silk, so suggestive of the artistic traditions of
many nationalities, and the long descent of patterns, recognizable after the
lapse of centuries, that a description of them, accompanied by illustrations,
can hardly fail to be interesting. They are all now reduced by time to a rich

golden brown, though there are indications that blue, green, and red have
been woven into their fabric, and there are also on one of them traces of
gilding. The first (plate 35) shows Oriental conventional peacocks, double-
headed and collared, framed within circles which slightly intersect each
other, thus giving the opportunity for varying the original motive by
breaking up the rolling arabesqued pattern, and uniting the stems and
flowers contained in the border. The spaces between the circles are filled in
with gryphons in pairs, of the Babylonian stamp, thick limbed with
strongly-marked muscles. There is a border or guimp, Persian in character,
in which are small crosses surmounting repetitions of the crenelated pattern
found in Assyrian ornament.
The second piece of silk contains a large rosace. Scattered about it are
repetitions of the Persian leaf or tree of life, and the border consists of
kneeling hares or fawns between a Persian arabesque and a corded line. The
mixture of Egyptian and Assyrian styles is remarkable throughout, till we
come to the centre of the rosace, where we find a most incongruous man in
armour on horseback with a hawk on his wrist, giving the Norman stamp of
the reigning house and influence in Sicily. The central subject is exactly
repeated on an embroidered twelfth century chasuble in the treasury of the
Cathedral of Bamberg, only that a royal crown and robes are worn by the
horseman (pl. 36).[261]
The third specimen is the most noteworthy (plate 37). There is nothing of
Assyrian here, but it reminds one of Egyptian and Greek art, and at once
suggests Count Roger’s Greek slaves at the Sicilian looms, but the design is
probably of a much earlier date, and the subject is puzzling. A piece of
drapery resembling an Egyptian sail with its fringes[262] (pl. 38) is looped
up on each side to the head of a thyrsus, and above it hangs a large cluster
of fruits. The lower part of the drapery rests upon water, and is somewhat
like a boat, with ducks swimming towards it, and fish disporting themselves
in the rippling waves. Between the circles the ducks are repeated, facing a
shield enriched with rows of the crenelated pattern surmounted by a vine.
These fragments have belonged each to a very large and freely woven silk
shawl or mantle. The circles are about two feet across. There is a different
arrangement of the threads in each web, giving different fine diapers, and

the last described has a raised pattern which might have been intended to
represent water.

Pl. 36.

See larger image

Norman and Persian Type.
A Silk Wrapping on the body of St. Cuthbert. Durham.

Pl. 37.

See larger image

Græco-Egyptian Style.
A Silk Wrapping on the body of St. Cuthbert. Durham.

Pl. 38.

Boat with coloured sail, from
the tomb of Rameses III.
at Thebes. (Wilkinson’s
“Ancient Egyptians,” iii.
p. 211.) Explanatory of
the design on St.
Cuthbert’s silk shroud, pl.
37.

It is most likely that in the twelfth century, or even a little later, the body of
St. Cuthbert was wrapped in these shawls, and so left when at the
Reformation, his shrine was destroyed, and the coffer containing his
remains buried in the same place, and piously concealed till our own day. I
shall describe the beautiful embroideries in which the body had been
clothed in the tenth century when I come to the subject of English work.
The third period of silk-weaving art is unmistakably Sicilian. At the end of
the thirteenth century and beginning of the fourteenth, Palermo struck out

her own line. The Greek cross appears in various forms. The designs are of
a wonderful richness and capricious ingenuity. They show alike Asiatic,
African, and European animals, and every kind of mythological creature—
griffins, dragons, dogs, and harts, with large wings; swans, pheasants, and
eagles, single or double-headed, often pecking at the sun’s rays; beautifully
drawn foliage and flowers, and heraldic emblems and coats-of-arms. One
peculiarity of the third period is the frequent use of green patterns on
“murrey”-coloured grounds.
All this splendour of design was commonly lavished on poor material. The
silks continued to be mixed with cotton, and the gold, or rather the gilding,
was so base that it has almost always become black on the foundation strips
of parchment or paper.[263]
The heraldic silks are mostly of the time of the Crusades, when the
distinguished pilgrims and warriors, especially the English, made Sicily
their half-way house to the Holy Land, and brought from thence fabrics
woven to suit their tastes. In Auberville’s book we find, under the dates of
many centuries, the most remarkable fragments now known. On portrait-
tombs and in some very ancient pictures are figured beautiful silks woven
in gold, which are recognizable at once by their Arab-Sicilian style. Of this
type, the remarkable fragment of the dress of Richard II., in the Kensington
Museum, dates itself, by carrying the cognizances of his grandfather and his
mother, and the portrait of his dog Math.[264]
The last period of the Sicilian silks is especially marked by the inscriptions
being mostly nonsense, and only woven in as ornament, with the forms of
Arab lettering.[265]
Sir G. Birdwood says that whether the Saracens found the manufacture of
silk already established in India or not, they certainly influenced the
decorative designs. He adds that kincobs are now woven at Ahmedabad and
Benares, identical in design with the old Sicilian brocades; while the
Saracenic Sicilian silks abound in patterns which prove their origin in
Assyrian, Sassanian, or Indian art.
We know that the Saracens introduced colonies of Persian, and probably
Indian workmen into Spain, after the beginning of the ninth century, to
assist them in their architecture and textile manufactures, and in return the

Mogul emperors of Delhi invited many Italian and French designers into
India.
The Taj and other buildings in Rajpootana are decorated with exquisite
mosaics coeval with those of Austin of Bordeaux. Their styles of art in
textiles, and in other materials, have acted and reacted upon each other; and
nothing throws more light on the affinities and the development of the
modern decorative arts of Europe than the history of the introduction, under
Justinian, of the silk manufactures from the East into the West.[266]
From Palermo, all the stages of the manufacture of silk spread themselves
over Italy and into Spain. According to Nicolo Tegrini, the flourishing silk-
weavers of Lucca having been ejected from the city in the early part of the
fourteenth century, carried their art elsewhere, and even to Germany,
France, and Britain.[267]
Italian weavers went to Lyons in 1450, and so started the silk industry that it
has steadily increased till now. It gives employment to about 31,000 looms
and 240,000 workpeople of both sexes.
The Moors, when they overflowed into Iberia, carried with them all their
Orientalisms, traditions, manufactures, and designs; thus disobeying their
prophet, who forbade the use of silk except to women.
Senhor F. de Riano tells us that from the ninth to the eleventh centuries,
Spain was producing fine silk tissues. The Moorish Cordovese writer, Ash-
Shakandi, who lived in the beginning of the thirteenth century, says,
“Malaga is famous for its manufactures of silks of all colours and patterns,
some of which are so rich that a suit made of them will cost many
thousands. Such are the brocades with beautiful designs and the names of
the Caliphs, Ameers, and other wealthy people woven into them.”[268]
The same author, speaking of the manufactures of silk at Almeria, says that
thence came the brightest colours; and Al-Makhari adds a list of precious
silk tissues, naming the “Tiraz,” the “Iscalaton,” and the robes called each
by its own special name.[269] Ash-Shakandi also mentions the looms of
Murcia, and its carpets.[270]
When the Moors were driven from Spain, the silk works of Malaga and
Almeria were ruined. But those of Valencia became famous, and flourish to

this day. Talavera della Reina also produces fine ecclesiastical fabrics, and
at Toledo the ancient traditions are preserved, and they still weave
sixteenth-century designs.
In Italy, Genoa, Florence, and Milan followed the Sicilian silk
manufactures, and each has left specimens of the craft, of which Rock has
pointed out the marked individualities.
The rich stuffs with inscriptions inwoven in gold, in the Middle Ages, were
called “literatis.”
The designs of Lucca at first imitated the Moorish Sicilian type; and
introduced as their speciality, white figures, such as angels in white
garments, and exchanged the Oriental intricate patterns for a bolder and
simpler style.
Venice, of course, also showed at first the Oriental impress; but she soon
struck out a line of her own; and her especial invention was shown in
weaving, from the thirteenth to the sixteenth centuries, square pieces of
silken tissue, representing sacred subjects.
Florentine tissues, especially their velvet and gold brocades, were
particularly splendid, and can be recognized by the loops of gold thread
drawn to the surface and left there. Of these early Florentine gold brocades
we have still beautiful examples in the palls of our City companies and in
ancient ecclesiastical vestments. The loops of gold have been the custom
since the thirteenth century, and still prevail in certain traditional fabrics, for
instance, in the banners woven annually for the prizes at the horse races in
Florence. The Corsini family, who have for many generations and for
hundreds of years competed in these races, had, in their princely palace at
Rome, a room entirely hung with the silk of these gorgeous banners.
In Hungary, Queen Gisela, in the eleventh century, established looms for
weaving silk; and many convents throughout Europe and in England wove
silken tissues for the service of the Church, till the great manufactures
absorbed these partially private enterprises.[271]
Individual exertion produced copies, or motives that are taken from Eastern,
Southern, or Northern inspirations; but it is only in large national schools of
arts or crafts that an absolutely recognizable style becomes apparent. For

example, the early French silks from monastic establishments are not
remarkable for either style or texture till the sixteenth century, when they
came to the front as a national manufacture, and have held the highest place
in silk-weaving ever since.
The Flemish towns of Ypres, Ghent, and Mechlin were known for their
silken webs in the thirteenth century, and at that time innumerable small
schools of the craft seem to have covered Europe. They are constantly
named in the lists of fine furnishings in Germany. In England, France, and
Germany, as well as in the Low Countries, each convent had, besides its
silk-weaving looms, its workshops for embroideries on silk, woollens, and
linens, borrowing from the Byzantine Empire, Sicily, and Spain, their
designs and patterns.
About this time (the thirteenth century), Marco Polo resided and travelled in
Asia. He visited the principal cities of Syria, Persia, Khotan, and Cathay,
and from him we have information of the different Asiatic textiles,
generally bearing the name of the city where they were woven. He names,
for instance, the mediæval “baudas” and “baudakin” (with endless
modifications in the spelling), from Baghdad. This afterwards gave the
word baldachino to the awning or canopy over the altar, which it retained
even when textiles had given place to marbles and mosaics.[272]
Satin is only found named in catalogues about the fourteenth century. But
the dalmatic of Charlemagne, at Rome, is embroidered on a stout blue satin,
and has never been transferred; and at Constantinople, Baldwin II., at his
coronation in 1204, was shod and clothed in vermilion satin embroidered
with jewels; while all the Venetian and French barons present were clad in
satin.[273] Semper and Bock believe that it had been a Chinese material long
before it reached Europe.
Satin was often called “blattin,” in connection with the colour of the
cochineal insect (blatta), whose dye was invariably used for satin. We
cannot tell, however, which was certainly named from the other.[274]
In the poem of “The Lady of the Fountain,” translated by Lady Charlotte
Guest from the Welsh ballads of the thirteenth century, silk and satin are
often named. At the opening of the poem, King Arthur is described seated

on a throne of rushes, covered with a flame-coloured satin cloth, and with a
red satin cushion under his elbow.
Fiery red was the orthodox colour for satin. In old German poems we find it
described as “pfellat,” always as being fiery. One kind of pfellat was called
salamander.[275] Bruges satins were the most esteemed in the Middle Ages.
Chaucer speaks of “satin riche and newe.”[276]
Satin and velvet are the contrasting silken materials. In satin the threads are
laid along so that the shining surface ripples with every ray of sunshine, and
the shadows are melted into half-lights by the reflections from every fold. It
makes a dazzling garment, splendid in its radiant sheen; whereas in velvet,
where each thread is placed upright and shorn smoothly, all light is
absorbed and there are no reflections, and the whole effects are solemn,
rich, and deep.[277] Some of the oldest velvets resemble plush in the length
of their pile, and have not the dignity of velvet.
Semper, from the different derivations that have been suggested, selects the
connection of the word “velvet” (German, Felbert) with “welf,” the skin or
fur of an animal.[278]
Among the gifts to Charlemagne (ninth century) from Haroun el Raschid
were velvets; and the earliest existing specimen we know of is named by
Bock as being in the Pergament Codex at Le Puy, in Vendôme, where,
amongst other curious interleaved specimens of weaving, is a fine piece of
shorn silk velvet.[279]
Marco Polo, in the thirteenth century, frequently speaks of velvet as an
Asiatic fabric. It is first known as a European textile in Lucca, about 1295,
and we may therefore say that it was imported from the East.[280]
In the next chapter on colour I have noticed the curious fact that the word
purple was sometimes used to mean colour, and sometimes to express the
texture of velvet, thus confounding the two; but I have also pointed out that
it had other meanings, and had become a very comprehensive word for
everything that expressed richness and warmth.
While examining and judging embroideries, we must be careful not to be
deceived by the different dates often occurring in the grounding and the
applied materials. Much embroidery was worked on fabrics that were

already old and even worn out; and others have been transferred centuries
ago, and perhaps more than once, to fresh grounds.[281]
This sometimes causes a good deal of difficulty in dating specimens. One
should begin by ascertaining whether the needlework was originally
intended to be cut out (opus consutum), and so laid on a ground of another
material, and worked down and finished there.
Of course it is always evident and easily ascertained, whether the work has
been transferred at all. If so—and from each succeeding transference—
small fragments may be found showing on the cut edges. You will often see
remains of two or more of these layers, reminding you of the three Trojan
cities dug up at different depths under each other at Hissarlik.
In judging each specimen the acumen of the expert is needed to obtain a
correct opinion, and he should not only be an archæologist, but a botanist
and a herald besides;[282] and, in fact, no kind of knowledge is useless in
deciphering the secrets of human art. But even when so armed, he is often
checked and puzzled by some accidental caprice of design or mode of
weaving, and after wasting trouble and time, has to cast it aside as defying
classification.
It is, however, as well to note these exceptions, as, when compared, they
sometimes explain each other.
What I have said regards, of course, the historical and archæological side of
the study of textiles, and I have treated of them as being either the origin or
the imitations of different styles of embroidery, and so inseparably
connected with the art which is the subject and motive of this book; and not
only in this does the connection between them exist, but in the fact that as
embroideries always need a ground, silken and other textiles are an absolute
necessity to their existence.
For these reasons alone I have given this chapter on materials, short and
imperfect, but suggesting further research into the writings of the authors I
have quoted, and, I hope, exciting the interest of the reader.

FOOTNOTES:

[130] Periplus of the Erythrean Sea.
[131] It is described by Yates as having the appearance of a flat ribbon, with the
edges thickened like a hem.
[132] This rough bark is probably the reason that it absorbs colour into its
substance (perhaps under the scales); and it may also account for its being
capable of felting.
[133] It may be laid down as a fundamental rule in technical style, that the
product shall preserve the peculiar characteristics of the raw material.
Unfortunately, the artist is often ignorant of the qualities of the fabric for which
he is designing, and the workman who has to carry it out is a mechanic, in these
days, instead of a craftsman.
[134] Molochinus, or malva silvestris (wild hemp), Yates, pp. 292-317, is
sometimes spoken of as a mallow, sometimes as a nettle. In the Vocabulary of
Papias (A.D. 1050) it is said that the cloth called molocina is made from thread
of mallow, and used for dress in Egypt. Garments of molochinus were brought
from India, according to the Periplus (see Pliny, 146, 166, 170, 171). It was
seldom used by the ancients, but both Greeks and Romans made it serve for mats
and ropes. The Thracians wove of it garments and sheets. It is not named in the
Scriptures.
[135] See Gibbs’ “British Honduras.”
[136] Spartum was a rush. Pliny says it was used for the rigging of ships.
[137] The bark of trees such as the Hybiscus Tiliaceus, and that of the Birch (see
Yates, p. 305-6). Birch bark was embroidered, till latterly, by the Indian women
in North America with porcupines’ quills. Pigafetta says (writing in the sixteenth
century) that in the kingdom of Congo many different kinds of stuff were
manufactured from the palm-tree fibre. He instances cloths on which patterns
were wrought, and likewise a material resembling “velvet on both sides.”
[138] “Camoca” or caman in the Middle Ages is supposed to have been of
camels’ hair, mixed with silk. Edward the Black Prince left to his confessor his
bed of red caman, with his arms embroidered on each corner. Rock (p. xliv)
gives us information about the tents and garments of camels’ hair found
throughout the East, wherever the camel flourishes and has a fine hairy winter
coat, which it sheds in the heat. The coarser parts are used for common purposes,
and the finest serve for beautiful fabrics, especially shawls. Marco Polo tells of
beautiful camelots manufactured from the hair of camels; and of the Egyptian
coarse and very fine fabrics woven of the same materials.
[139] “Le Chevalier à Deux Epées” (quoted by Dr. Rock), and Lady Wilton,
“Art of Needlework,” p. 128.
[140] See p. 359, post, for Boadicea’s dress.
[141] See Mr. Villiers Stuart’s “Funeral Tent of an Egyptian Queen.”
[142] The Moors in Spain excelled in leather-work and embroidery upon it; and
Marco Polo describes the beautiful productions of the province of Guzerat, of

leather inlaid and embroidered with gold and silver wire. Yule’s “Marco Polo,”
p. 383.
[143] See chapter on Stitches.
[144] See Chardin, vol. i. p. 31.
[145] Tin, called “laton,” was used to debase the metal threads in the Middle
Ages. It is also named as a legitimate material for metal embroideries.
[146] For all information about asbestos, see Yates, pp. 356, 565.
[147] There is one at the Barberini Palace at Rome. A sheet, woven of asbestos,
found in a tomb outside the Porta Maggiore, is described by Sir J. E. Smith in
his “Tour on the Continent” (vol. ii. p. 201) as being coarsely spun, but as soft
and pliant as silk. “We set fire to it, and the same part being repeatedly burnt,
was not at all injured.”
[148] See Yule’s “Marco Polo,” vol. i. pp. 215, 218, and Yates, p. 361.
[149] There are specimens of bead-work pictures at St. Stephen’s at Coire, in the
Marien-Kirche at Dantzic, and elsewhere. See Rock, p. cv. This is, in fact,
mosaic in textiles, without cement.
[150] Witness the stone whorls for the spindles in our prehistoric barrows, and
the “heaps” of the lake cities.
[151] Yates, “Textrinum Antiquorum,” p. 129.
[152] An Egyptian Dynasty called themselves the Shepherd Kings.
[153] Yates gives endless quotations to show how ancient and how honourable
an occupation was that of tending sheep.
[154] Semper, i. p. 139. The cover of the bed on which was laid the golden
coffin in the tomb of Cyrus was of Babylonian tapestry of wool; the carpet
beneath it was woven of the finest wrought purple. Plautus mentions Babylonian
hangings and embroidered tapestries. See Birdwood’s “Indian Arts,” i. p. 286.
[155] Joshua vii.
[156] Ezekiel xxvii. 22.
[157] Semper, “Der Stil,” i. p. 138.
[158] Yates, pp. 79, 91, 93, 99, 102, 445. Lanæ Albæ.

“The first, Apulia’s; next is Parma’s boast;
And the third fleece Altinum has engrossed.”

Martial, xiv. Ep. 155.

Martial also speaks of the matchless Tarentine togæ, a present from Parthenius:
—

“With thee the lily and the privet pale

Compared, and Tibur’s whitest ivory fail;
The Spartan swan, the Paphian doves deplore
Their hue, and pearls on the Erythrean shore.”

Martial, viii. Ep. 28.

[159] The sheep of Tarentum, from the days of the Greek colonists, were famed,
as they are still, for the warm brown tints on their black wool. Pliny says that
this is caused by the weed fumio, on which they browsed. Swinburne says, in his
“Travels in the Two Sicilies,” that there the wool is so tinged by the plant now
called fumolo, which grows on the coast.
[160] See Blümner’s “Technologie,” p. 92; also “Comptes Rendus de la
Commission Impériale Archéologique” of St. Petersburg, 1881; also the
Catalogue Raisonnée of Herr Graf’schen’s Egyptian Collection of Textiles at
Vienna.
[161] See Pliny’s “Natural History,” viii. 74, § 191. Tanaquil is credited with the
first invention of the seamless coat or cassock.
[162] The Gauls in Britain wove plaids or tartans. See Rock, p. xii; Blümner, pp.
152-54; Birdwood, p. 286.
[163] Pliny, “Natural History,” book viii., 73, 74.
[164] “Georgics,” iv. 334; Yates, p. 35.
[165] “Comptes Rendus de la Commission Impériale Archéologique,” St.
Petersburg, 1881. Much of this Gobelin weaving has lately been found in Egypt.
See “Katalog der Teodor Graf’schen Fünde in Ægypten,” von Dr. J. Karabacek.
[166] Semper considers that the famous Babylonian and Phrygian stuffs were all
woollen, and that gold was woven or embroidered on them. See “Der Stil,” i. p.
138.
[167] Worcester cloth was forbidden to the Benedictines by a Chapter of that
Order at Westminster Abbey in 1422, as being fine enough for soldiers, and
therefore too good for monks. See Rock’s Introduction, p. lxxviii.
[168] Both these fabrics are represented in Egyptian and Greek fragments, and
are equally well preserved.
[169] Boyd Dawkins, “Early Man in Britain,” pp. 268, 275.
[170] See Wilkinson, “Ancient Egyptians,” vol. iii. p. 116; Yates, p. 23.
[171] It appears that the art of printing textiles was known in Egypt in the time
of Pliny. See Yates, p. 272, quoting Apuleius, Met. l. xi.; also see Wilkinson,
“Ancient Egyptians,” vol. ii. p. 196, pl. xii.
[172] See Yates, “Textrinum Antiquorum,” pp. 268, 335; Herodotus, ii. 86.
Herodotus and Strabo speak of Babylonian linen, cited by Yates, p. 281.
[173] “Textrinum Antiquorum,” pp. 267-80. A peculiarity of Egyptian linen is
that it was often woven with more threads in the warp than in the woof. A

specimen in the Indian Museum, South Kensington, shows in its delicate texture
140 threads in the inch to the warp, and 64 to the woof. Another piece of fine
linen has 270 to the warp, and 110 to the woof. Generally there are twice or three
times as many threads, but sometimes even four times the number. Wilkinson
gives a probable reason for this peculiarity. See Wilkinson’s “Ancient
Egyptians,” vol. i. chap. ix. pp. 121-226. See Rock’s Introduction, p. xiv.
[174] De Somniis, vol. i. p. 653. Yates, p. 271.
[175] Philo, cited by Yates, p. 271.
[176] Paulinus ad Cytherium, cited by Yates, p. 273.
[177] Herodotus, l. ii. c. 182, l. iii. c. 47. Rawlinson’s Trans.
[178] Proverbs vii. 16.
[179] Yates, p. 291. Denon describes a tunic found in a sarcophagus, which he
examined, and says: “The weaving was extremely loose, of thread as fine as a
hair, of two strands of twisted flax fibre.”—Auberville’s “Ornement des Tissus,”
p. 4. Some marvellously fine specimens of such cambric may be seen at the
South Kensington Museum and the British Museum.
[180] Not that we have any remains of flax linen from their tombs.
[181] It was carried thence, at a prehistoric date, to Assyria and Egypt.
[182] There is no proof that it was grown in Egypt till the fourteenth century
A.D., when it is mentioned for the first time in a MS. of that date of the “Codex
Antwerpianus.” See Yates, Appendix E, p. 470.
[183] Birdwood, p. 241.
[184] Puggaree. Yates says that cotton has always been supposed to be the best
preserver against sunstroke, p. 341.
[185] Carpas, the proper Oriental name for cotton, is found in the same sense in
the Sanskrit, Arabic, and Persian languages. Yates, p. 341.
[186] In the Æneid, the garment of Chloreus the Phrygian is thus described:—

“His saffron chlamys, and each rustling fold
Of muslin (carpas), was confined with glittering
gold.”

Æneid, xi. 775.

[187] Dakka muslins are the most esteemed. Their poetic names, “running
water,” “woven air,” “evening dew,” are more descriptive than pages of prose.
See Birdwood, ii. p. 259.
[188] Chintzes, calicoes, fine cloths, and strong tent-cloths, cotton carpets, &c.,
&c. Forbes Watson classifies the calicoes as being white, bleached and
unbleached, striped, &c., printed chintzes, or pintadoes. See Birdwood, p. 260.

[189] For Buckram and Fustian, see Rock, pp. lxxxv, lxxxvi. In Lady
Burgeweny’s (Abergavenny) will, 1434, she leaves as part of the furnishings of
her bed “of gold of swan,” two pairs of sheets of Raine (Rennes), and a pair of
fustian. Anne Boleyn’s list of clothes contains “Bokerams, for lining and
taynting,” gowns, sleeves, cloaks, and beds. Rock, lxxxvi. Renouard, in his
“Romaunce Dictionary,” quotes the following: “Vestæ de Polpia e de Bisso qui
est bacaram.” For the antiquity of this fabric, see Herr Graf’schen’s Catalogue of
Textiles from the Fayoum.
[190] See Yates, p. 300, citing “Herod’s silver apparel.”
[191] “Indian Arts,” ii. p. 237.
[192] Rock, p. xxv. Yates (p. 3) says they cut their gold for wearing apparel into
thin plates, and did not draw it into wire, as it is translated in the Vulgate
(Exodus xxxix.). The ephod made by Bezaleel was of fine linen, gold, violet,
purple, and scarlet, twice dyed, with embroidered work. This tradition must have
guided the artist who designed the ephod in the National Museum at Munich, in
the seventeenth century, for a prince boy-bishop.
[193] Quintus Curtius says that many thousands, clothed in these costly
materials, crowded out of Damascus to meet Alexander.
[194] There is a very ancient local tradition at Shŭsh, that A.D. 640, in the reign
of the Kaliph Omar, the body of the prophet Daniel was found, wrapped in cloth
of gold, in a stone coffin; and, by order of the victorious general, it was placed in
one of glass, and moored to the bridge which spanned the branch of the
Euphrates flowing between the two halves of the city, so that the waters flowed
over it. See “Chaldea and Susiana,” by Loftus, and Sir G. W. Gore Ouseley’s
translation of a Persian version of “The Book of Victories.” Alexander is said to
have been buried in a glass coffin. (See Wilkinson’s “Ancient Egyptians,” ii. p.
102, note †.)
[195] Yates, pp. 367-70; Rock, p. xxvi.
[196] “Aura intexere eadem Asiâ invenit Attalus Rex unde nomen Attalicis.”—
Pliny, viii. c. 48, and Yates, p. 371. The reign of Attalus II. was B.C. 159-188.
[197] “And they did beat the gold into plates, and cut it into wires, and work it
into the blue, and the purple, and the fine linen.”—Exod. xxxix.
[198] See Yates, p. 371; and Bock, xxxiii.
[199] Pliny, xxxiii. In the Museum at Leyden there is a shred of gold cloth found
in a tomb at Tarquinia, in Etruria. This is a compactly woven covering over
bright yellow silk.
[200] Gold wire is still worked through leather at Guzerat. See Birdwood, p.
284, Ed. 1880. Marco Polo mentions this embroidery 600 years ago. Bk. iii.
chap. xxvi. (Yule). The hunting cuirass of Assurbanipal (pl. 1) appears to be so
worked, and of such materials. Also see Wilkinson, “Ancient Egyptians,” vol. iii.
p. 130. This gold for weaving was beaten into shape with hammers.

[201] Pope Eutichinus, in the third century, buried many martyrs in golden
robes.
[202] “Liber Pontificalis,” t. ii. p. 332.
[203] See Rock, pp. xxvii, xxxv; and Parker’s “Use of the Levitical Colours,” p.
49.
[204] See Yates, p. 376.
[205] Rock, p. xxxv. The toga picta, or trabea, part of the official dress of her
sons.
[206] Hoveden’s “Annal.” p. 481, Ed. Savile; Rock, p. xxx.
[207] See “Archæologia,” 1880, pp. 317, 322; also Pl. 74, No. 20 (post).
[208] Bock, “L. Gewänder,” taf. ix. vol. i.
[209] Rock, p. xxxvii.
[210] Ciclatoun, according to Rock, p. xxxix, is a common Persian name for
such tissues in the East. This, in common with nasick, nak, and many other
beautiful tissues, was wrought in gold with figures of birds and beasts.—Yule’s
“Marco Polo,” ed. 1875, i. p. 65.
Dr. Rock quotes the old ballad,—

“In a robe right royall bowne,
Of a red ciclatoune,
Be her fader’s syde;
A coronall on her hede sett,
Her clothes with byrdes of gold were bette
All about for pryde.”

[211] In St. Paul’s in London there was formerly an amice adorned with the
figures of two bishops and a king, hammered out of silver, and gilt. Dugdale, ed.
1818, p. 318. See also Rock, pp. xxix-xxxii.
[212] Museum at Berne.
[213] A piece of Venetian work to be seen at the South Kensington Museum is
an altar frontal, worked in coral, gold beads, seed pearls, and spangles. All
jewellers’ work, including enamel, was much admired and introduced into their
embroideries. (See Rock’s Introduction to Catalogue of the Kensington
Museum, pp. civ-cviii, ed. 1870.)
[214] On this gorgeous piece of Italian art there are added a number of buttons
(for we can give them no other name), with crosses and hearts under crystal,
which seem to have belonged to another period and workmanship, or else are to
be attributed to a superstitious feeling on the part of the maker, who placed these
Christian signs, perhaps, surreptitiously, and for the good of his own soul.
[215] The Museum of National Art at Munich has a fine collection of gold and
silver, spangled, and black bead head-dresses, now mostly antiquated, though in

peasant dress it yet survives.
[216] It is embroidered in gold, with red silk and gems; and I have elsewhere
said that it probably issued from the Hotel de Tiraz at Messina.
[217] Terry, in his “Voyage to the East Indies,” speaks of the rich carpets (p.
128): “The ground of some of these is silver or gold, about which such
arabesques in flowers and figures as I have before named are most excellently
disposed.”
[218] These of late years have been the most gorgeous objects at exhibitions of
old needlework, and the ambition and despair of collectors.
[219] Gold thread was also made of gilt paper, equally by the Moors and the
Japanese.
[220] In Aikin’s “Life of James I.,” p. 205, we have a curious account of the
monopoly of gold thread, that had been granted, with others, to George Villiers,
Duke of Buckingham. The thread was so scandalously debased with copper as to
corrode the hands of the artificers, and even the flesh of those who wore it. This
adulterated article they sold at an exorbitant price, and if they detected any one
making a cheaper or better article, they were empowered to fine or imprison
them, while a clause in their patent protected themselves. The manufacturers of
this base metal thread were two Frenchmen, Mompesson and Michel, and
Edward Villiers, the Marquis’ brother, was one of the firm. Doubtless they drove
for a time a roaring trade, as gold embroideries were then universally worn, both
by men and women; but the House of Commons interfered, and the monopoly
was abolished.
[221] Mitre of white satin, with two figure subjects in flat gold—the martyrdom
of St. Stephen, and that of St. Thomas of Canterbury.
[222] The School of Gold Embroidery at Munich produces work of a richness
and precision which has, perhaps, never been excelled. The raised parts of the
design are first cast in soft hollow “carton,” and the gold is worked on it and into
the recesses with the help of a fine stiletto, which pioneers the needle for each
stitch. This is embroidery “on the stamp,” but without padding.
[223] Bock, “L. Gewänder,” vol. i. p. 48. Prizes are offered at Lyons for the best
mode of manufacturing gold and silver thread that will not tarnish.
[224] Yates says, pp. 160-162: “Whether silk was mentioned in the Old
Testament cannot, perhaps, be determined. After fully considering the subject,
Braunius decides against silk being known to the Hebrews in ancient times (‘De
Vestitu Heb. Sacerdotum,’ i. c. viii.).” The contrary opinion is founded on the
passage, “I clothed thee with broidered work, and shod thee with badger-skins. I
girded thee about with fine linen, and covered thee with silk” (meshi).—Ezekiel
xvi. But the translation is disputed.
[225] “Code of Manu,” xi. 168; xii. 64. Yates, “Textrinum Antiquorum,” p. 204.
[226] Auberville, “Ornement des Tissus,” p. ii.

[227] Yates (pp. 173, 174) believes that “Cos” should always be read for Cios,
about which there seems to be some confusion. Chios has also been substituted
for the name of “Cos,” the island.
There is no doubt that the Roman ladies obtained their most splendid garments
from Cos—perhaps of wool as well as of silk.
[228] Birdwood, “Textile Arts of India,” ii. p. 269.
[229] Yates, “Textrinum Antiquorum,” p. 204.
[230] Yates, “Textrinum Antiquorum,” note (*), p. 184. Aristotle (fourth century
B.C.), however, had already given evidence respecting the use of silk, which was
adopted and repeated by Pliny, Clemens Alexandrinus, and Basil. Aristotle tells
the story of Pamphile. One thousand years later Procopius (sixth century A.D.)
says the raw material was then brought from the East, and woven in the
Phœnician cities of Tyre and Berytus. See Yates, pp. 163, 164.
[231] Ibid., note (*), p. 184.
[232] Yates, “Textrinum Antiquorum,” p. 181.
[233] I have mentioned this already, to prove the antiquity of the art of
embroidery. Here I repeat it in reference to the first mention of silk. (See p. 38
ante.)
[234] “Bibliothèque Orientale de M. Herbelot,” ed. 1778, vol. iii. p. 19.
[235] Auberville, p. 2; Yates (pp. 172, 173) calls her Si-ling, wife of Hoang-ti,
and quotes the “Resumé des Principaux Tractes Chinois,” traduits par Stanislas
Julien, 1837, pp. 67, 68.
[236] Auberville, “Histoire des Tissus,” pp. 2-4; “Du Halde,” vol. ii. pp. 355,
356 (8vo edition, London, 1736).
[237] Related by Klaproth, the Russian Orientalist.
[238] Yates, p. 238. “History of Khotan,” translated by M. Abel Rémusat, pp. 55,
56.
[239] Khotan or Little Bucharia would, in common parlance, be included in
Serica; and therefore silk exported thence to Europe would have been perfectly
described as coming from the Seres. Yates, p. 231, 232.
[240] Yates, p. 231.
[241] While in Europe the arts of daily use and decoration were struggling for
life after many interruptions and revolutions, the civilization of Japan, which is
nearly contemporary with Christianity, spent itself in perfecting to the most
exquisite finish the arts which had been imported from China and Corea. Japan
also inherited the power and the tradition of concealment, and so Europe
remained unconscious, until the last century, of the miraculous arts which a
semi-barbarous people were cultivating—not for commercial purposes.
Auberville, “Tissus,” pp. 2-4.
[242] Yates, pp. 175-184.

[243] Yates, p. 176. The silken flags attached to the gilt standards of the
Parthians inflamed the cupidity of the army of Crassus. The conflict between
them took place 54 B.C. About thirty years after this date, Roman luxury had
reached its zenith—

“The insatiate Roman spreads his conquering arm
O’er land and sea, where’er heaven’s light extends.”

“Petronius Arbiter,” c.
cxix.

After these words he says that among the richest productions of distant climes,
the Seres sent their “new fleeces.”
[244] Yates, p. 183.
[245] “Holosericum,” whole silk; “subsericum,” partly cotton, hemp, or flax.
The longitudinal threads or warp, cotton; the cross threads, silk. Rock, “Textile
Fabrics,” p. xxxvii (ed. 1870).
[246] Yates, p. 195.
[247] Yates, p. 198. For the value of the denarius, see Waddington, “Edit. de
Diocletien,” p. 3.
[248] Gruter, tom. iii. p. 645; Yates, p. 205.
[249] Yates, p. 246. The words “silk” and “satin” are spoken of by Yates as
having two derivations—the one imported to us through Greece and Italy, the
other from Eastern Asia, through Slavonia, by the north of Europe.
[250] Yates, p. 231; who remarks, p. 203, that the laws of Justinian are not
directed against the use of silk as a luxury, but rather as appropriating it as an
imperial monopoly and source of revenue.
[251] Tom. ii. p. 106 (ed. 1630). See Yates, p. 213.
[252] Yates, p. 214.
[253] Auberville, Plate 4. Amongst these are what he calls “Consular silks.”
These are, or may be, included in the palmated class, as they are evidently
woven for triumphal occasions. One of the most remarkable has every mark of
Oriental design. It represents a picture in a circle, repeated over and over again,
of a warrior in his quadriga. Black or coloured slaves drive the horses, either
running beside them or standing upon them; and other slaves carry beasts on
their shoulders, and are stooping to give them drink at a trough. The space
between the circles is filled in with the tree of life, growing out of its two horns.
The colours are purple and gold. He places this between the first and seventh
centuries (see pl. 34).
[254] There are, however, a few that have not had the security of the tomb, and
yet have survived, such as the chasuble and maniple at Bayeux, of the seventh
century, and Charlemagne’s dalmatic.

[255] Roger de Wendover, “Chronica,” t. iv. p. 127, ed. Coxe. Quoted by Rock
from Ralph, Dean of St. Paul’s. See Rock, Introduction, p. lv.
[256] Roger de Wendover, “Chronica,” t. iv., ed. Coxe; also Yates, “Textrinum
Antiquorum,” pp. 243, 244.
[257] In the twelfth century. Semper, i. p. 38.
[258] See illustration from the portrait of Sultan Mahomet II., by Gentil Bellini.
Ante, p. 146, Plate 33.
[259] See Semper, p. 157.
[260] The Sicilian type of design in silk-weaving was carried into Germany
about the end of the second period. We are informed by Auberville that there
existed at that time a manufacture of ecclesiastical stuffs at Leipzig, from which
he gives us fine examples.
[261] See Bock’s “Liturgische Gewänder,” vol. ii. Taf. xxxiii. The pattern is
twelfth century “metal work,” embroidered in gold.
[262] See Wilkinson’s “Ancient Egyptians,” iii., pl. xvi.; v., pl. xxxiv. In general,
a scarf floats from the prow or from the oars.
[263] The Crusaders carried away splendid booty from the towns they took and
ransacked. As it was the great gathering-place of all Eastern and Western
nations, Jerusalem was a mart for rich merchandise from Persia, Arabia, Syria,
and Phœnicia, till the times of the Latin kings. Antioch, as well as Jerusalem,
yielded the richest plunder. Matthew Paris (a contemporary historian), speaking
of what was taken at Antioch, 1098, says, “At the division of costly vessels,
crosses, weavings, and silken stuffs, every beggar in the crusading army was
enriched.” Alexandria, as early as the middle of the sixth century, A.D., had been
the depôt for the silken stuffs of Libya and Morocco. Here is a wide area opened
to us for suggestions as to the origin and traditions of patterns in silk textile art.
See Bock’s “Liturgische Gewänder,” vol. i. pp. 29, 30.
[264] Rock, Introduction, p. ccxlviii, and p. 268, No. 8710.
[265] The weaving of inscriptions in textiles is not a Saracenic invention. Pliny
says it was a custom among the Parthians. See Rock’s “Textile Fabrics,” p. lxi.
“In allusion to lettered garments, Ausonius thus celebrates Sabina, of whom we
otherwise know nothing:—

“‘They who both webs and verses weave,
The first to thee, oh chaste Minerva, leave;
The latter to the Muses they devote.
To me, Sabina, it appears a sin
To separate two things so near akin;
So I have writ these verses on my coat.’”

See Lady Wilton on “Needlework,” p. 53.
[266] Birdwood, “Indian Arts,” p. 274.

[267] Yates, “Textrinum Antiquorum,” p. 244; Tegrini, “Vita Castruccii,” in
Muratore, “Ital. Script.,” t. xi. p. 1320.
[268] Riano, “Cat. of Loan Exhibition of Spanish Art in South Kensington
Museum,” 1882, p. 46.
[269] In Hoveden’s account of the fleet of Richard I. coasting the shores of
Spain, he speaks of the delicate and valuable textures of the silks of Almeria.
Rog. Hoveden, Ann., ed. Savile, p. 382. Rock, p. xx.
[270] Bock, pp. 39, 40, quotes from Anastasius and the Abbot of Fontenelle,
proving that silken rugs were manufactured in Spain by the Moors.
[271] Auberville, “Histoire des Tissus,” p. 14.
[272] Yule’s “Marco Polo,” p. 224. “Baudakin” from Baghdad, “damask” from
Damascus. “Baudakin” was woven with beasts, birds, and flowers in gold.
[273] “Récit de Robert Clari.” He was one of the companions of Ville
d’Hardouin, and a witness to the coronation of Baldwin II. See Auberville’s
“Histoire des Tissus,” p. 21.
[274] Satin is called by Marco Polo “zettani,” and he says it came from Syria.
The French called it “zatony;” the Spaniards named it “aceytuni,” which is
probably derived from “zaituniah,” the product of Zaiton. Yates (p. 246) gives
the derivations of the words satin and silk; the one imported to us through
Greece and Italy, the other from Eastern Asia, through Slavonia and Northern
Europe.
[275] Ibid. In the Wigalois, a story is told of a cavern in Asia full of everlasting
flames, where costly fellat was made by the Salamanders, which was fireproof
and indestructible.
[276] “Man of Lawe’s Tale: Canterbury Pilgrims.”
[277] “Ohitos terciopelos” (three-piled-velvet eyes) is a pretty Spanish phrase,
describing the soft, dark, shadowy eyes of the Spanish girls.
[278] The Italian word velluto means “shaggy.”
[279] Bock, i. pp. 99-101.
[280] Buckram was sometimes a silken plush, but generally was woven with
cotton. This was also Asiatic, and named by travellers of the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries. I have already mentioned it as a textile in the chapter on
cotton. When woven of silk it belongs to the class of velvets.
[281] Elsewhere I have spoken of the embroideries of the early Christian times
found in the Fayoum, in Egypt. These afford notable examples of the ancient
method in putting in patches on a worn or frayed garment. They invariably
embroidered them, and so added a grace to the old and honoured vestment, and
justified the classical appellation, “Healer of clothes” for a darner. The
comparatively modern additions of the restorer, are in ancient as in later
specimens, often a puzzle to the archæologist.

[282] The specimens in the South Kensington Museum, where Dr. Rock gives
their approximate dates, are most useful to the student of this subject.

CHAPTER V.
COLOUR.

“My soul, what gracious glorious powers
To hue and radiance God has given!”

Cautley, “Emblems,” p.
21.

It is my intention to confine myself to the discussion of colour, in as far as it
belongs to the dyes of textiles and the materials for embroidery. I will
adhere as closely as I can to this part of what is a great and most interesting
subject—one which the science of to-day has opened out, and by the test of
experiment, cleared of erroneous theories; revealing to us all its beauty and
fitness for the use and delight of man.
As through all ages the eye has been gradually educated to appreciate
harmony in colour, so dissonance—that is, what errs against harmony—
hurts us, without apparently a sufficient reason; and we have to seek the
causes of our sensations in the scientific works and lectures of Professor
Tyndall and others.
There is no doubt that the appreciation of colour has belonged in different
degrees to the eye of every animal, but especially to that of man, ever since
light first painted the flowers of the field. The eye is created to see colour,
as well as form. But we know that men, being accustomed to acquiesce in
the powers with which they find themselves gifted by nature, enjoy and use
them, long before they begin to study, classify, and name them.
When we recollect that the circulation of the blood was not known within
the last three hundred years, and that Albert Dürer painted the skeleton
Death on the bridge of Lucerne, with one bone in the upper and one in the
lower arm, we shall be surprised to find that the ancients had named the
colours they saw, with some degree of descriptive and scientific precision.

The word “purple,” for instance, covered a multitude of tints, which had not
as yet been differentiated, either in common parlance or in poetry,[283]
though as articles of commerce the purple tints had been early
distinguished.
What names have we now, in this present advanced day, for defining tastes
or smells? We say that something smells like a violet, or a rose, or a sea
breeze, or a frosted cabbage. We say a smell is nice or nasty, that a taste is
delicious or nauseous; but beyond calling it sweet or sour, we have no
descriptive words for either smells or tastes, whereas the nations who traded
in the materials for dyes exchanged their nomenclatures, which we can
recognize from the descriptive remarks of different authors.
Colour, as an art, was born in those lands which cluster round the eastern
shores of the Mediterranean—the northern coasts of Syria and Arabia, and
the isles of Greece. All art grew in that area, and all its adjuncts and
materials there came to perfection, though often imported from more
southern and eastern sources.[284]
E. Curtius says that the science of colour came into Europe with the
Phœnicians and accompanied the worship of Astarte. This, of course,
applies to artistic textiles, as the Greeks had already acquired the art of
dyeing for plain weaving. Numa, in his regulations for necessary weaving,
refers also to colour. The Italians therefore must at that time have made
some advance in the art, especially the Etruscans.[285]
The infinity of variation in colour is difficult to imagine. The chemists of
the Gobelins have fixed and catalogued 4480 tones. Besides, we must not
forget that it is now all but ascertained that the same colour is probably
appreciated differently by nearly every eye.[286]
How the eye accepts colours and conveys them to the mind is still a
question in dispute, though the theories of Tyndall, Helmholz, Hering,
Charpentier, and others, aided by experiments, are drawing ascertained facts
into a circle, which will ere long be complete, and the mysteries of colour
may be ascertained.
Probably the effects of colour on educated minds are as various as the tints
and shades of tones of the many substances which receive them,—reflected

from all surrounding objects, blazing in light, or softened by shadow,—
fresh and glowing, or permanently faded—shining with modern varnish, or
sobered by the dust of ages.
It is the art of the colourist, whether he paints pictures, or dyes textiles, or
embroiders them, to reduce the tints of the prism to an endurable and
delightful lowness of tone, while preserving as far as possible all their light
and purity.
Prismatic colours are so radiantly glorious, that when we see the rainbow in
the sky it is each time a joyful surprise. The most stolid natures are moved
by it; we have even seen our dog staring at it.
When, in experiments on light, the shafts of colour are thrown on the wall,
they are greeted with shouts of admiration; but these glories are veiled to us
by the fact that the eye cannot dissect the prismatic ray without the
assistance of the instrument that has revealed it. This is a merciful
arrangement; for we are not fitted to live in a prismatic display, any more
than in a continuity of lightning flashes. We should go mad or blind if
exposed to either.
Science has shown us the perfect beauty of colour without form, the
soothing pleasures of its harmonies, and the delightful surprises of its
contrasts. From the glimpses we have of its nature and laws, we may hope
for fresh inspiration for the art of the colourist.
Though it is true that each eye, even when educated, retains its own special
appreciation of the colours that gratify its seeing nerve, yet there are certain
standards which give almost universal pleasure.[287]
The blind and the colour-blind must remain exceptions for all time; and
there are many gradations in colour-blindness, till we come to the normal
class of seeing eyes; and passing them by, reach to those few men, gifted
beyond all others with that fund of sensitive eye-nerve and mental power,
which enables them to create new thoughts in colour.[288] Titian and his
school arose from the inherited science and tradition, and carefully prepared
pigments of his immediate predecessors, acting on an exceptional eye and
mind, imbued with the splendours of the early mornings and the sunsets in
the glowing atmosphere of Venice.

Colour has long been supposed to convey certain impressions to the mind.
The absence of all colour, which we call “black,” symbolizes in dress, grief,
pride, or dignity; according as it drapes the mourner, the Spanish grandee,
or the priest.[289] Yellow being the colour of the sun and of corn and gold,
represents riches, generosity, and light. Red stands between the dark and the
lively colours, and represents warmth and animation, dignity, splendour,
life, love, and joy.
The expression of blue is that of purity. It recalls the distant sky, the calm
ocean, and has an immortal and celestial character. It ascends to the highest
and descends to the lowest tones of chiaro-oscuro. Nothing so nearly
approaches pure white as the palest blue; nothing is so nearly black as the
darkest.
Green has been assigned by nature the place of the universal background. It
is the complementary colour of red, softening and assimilating it by
reflected shadows, and setting off the glory of every flower and fruit. The
expression of green is gaiety and modesty, light and tenderness, shadow and
repose, to both the eye and the mind.[290]
It must be allowed that it is by the earliest associations of the individual, or
by those derived from the family, the tribe or the nation, that colours are
connected with such attributes welded by art and time into traditional
meanings, which they absolutely possess,[291] and from which fashion
cannot disconnect them; such, for instance, is the royalty of purple.
The word purple is so indiscriminately used as a poetic epithet, rather than
as a distinctive appellation, that much confusion has been caused by it.
Historically, among the Persians, Greeks, and Romans it appears to have
been simply the royal colour, varying from the purest blue, through every
shade of violet, down to the deepest crimson. Sometimes, poetically,
“purple” seems to have described only a surface. The breezy or stormy sea
was purple; the sky was purple; the hyacinthine locks of Narcissus, the rosy
lips of Venus were purple. As a textile, velvet was purple, even when it was
white.[292]
The epithets “purple” and “wine-coloured” are often bestowed on the
Mediterranean Sea, and are justified by its occasional hue:—

“As from the clouds, deep-bosom’d, swell’d with
showers,
A sudden storm the purple ocean sweeps,
Drives the wild waves, and tosses all the deeps.”

Pope’s Homer, “Iliad,”
b. xi. v. 383.

Professor Tyndall suggests that the soft green of the sea, shadowed by
clouds, assumes a subjective purple hue. Homer must have observed this
before he became blind.
Pliny gives us much information about this colour; he enumerates the
different sea-shores and coasts, Egyptian, Asiatic, and European, whence
came the shell-fish (the murex and pelagia) that produced the so-called
Tyrian purple dyes.[293]
He says that Romulus wore the purple, and that the dyed garments, all
purple, were sacred to the gods in those days. After saying that it was still a
colour of distinction, he continues: “Let us be prepared to excuse the frantic
passion for purple, though we are impelled to inquire why such a high value
is placed on the produce of this fish, seeing that in the dye the smell of it is
offensive, and the colour, of a greenish hue, resembles the sea when
tempestuous.” He describes purples[294] as being differently coloured
according as to whether these “conchylia” inhabited the sea mud, the reefs,
or the pebbly shores, the last being the most valuable.[295] This purple, said
to have been imported from the coasts of Tyre, was till lately sold in Rome
for its weight in gold; it gave the burning rosy red dye of the Cardinal’s
robes, and was called “Porpora encarnadina,” purple incarnadine. It is full
of light and freshness, and never fades; in fact, it has all the qualities
ascribed to it by Pliny. It intensifies in the light.[296]
After purple, scarlet was the colour most esteemed by the ancients. The
Israelites must have carried with them the dyes which coloured the
hangings, woven or embroidered, belonging to the sanctuary in the
wilderness, of which the outer covering of rams’ skins was dyed scarlet, and
was probably of the nature of red morocco.[297]

There was the mineral dye, (cinnabar or red sulphate of mercury), and the
insect dye; the first was probably used in mural painting. It is translated in
our Bible as vermilion, in the account given by Jeremiah of a “house, ceiled
with cedar, and painted with vermilion.”[298] Also Ezekiel gives us another
instance of house-painting in vermilion.[299] Homer, who as a rule does not
describe colouring, says the Greek ships were painted red.
It is probable that cinnabar was tempered, by admixture of white or other
colours, for the monochrome painting of the Egyptians and Greeks. It was
called by the Greeks miltos, by the Romans minium.
The dye of the red portions of the funeral tent of Queen Isi-em-Kheb,
Shishak’s mother-in-law, is found by analysis to be composed of hematite
(peroxyde of iron) tempered with lime. This is a beautiful pink red.[300]
The mineral red now called vermilion must have borrowed its name from
the insect dye which the Greeks and Romans called “kermes.” In the
Middle Ages the dye from the kermes was still called “vermiculata,” of
which the word vermilion is a literal translation.
We should be fortunate if we could find how the Greeks and Romans
prepared the cinnabar for mural painting, of which we find remnants in
ruins and tombs—a lovely and pure red, with a tender bloom on it like a
fragment of the rainbow, and not the slightest shade of yellow.
One of the most beautiful specimens of this scarlet that I am acquainted
with, is a small drinking-cup (a “rhyton”) at the British Museum, in the
form of a sphinx, with a white face, gilded hair, and a little cap of pure
cinnabar, which is so soft in tone that it suggests the texture of scarlet
velvet.
Cochineal, which was first brought from America in the sixteenth century,
has now replaced almost every other scarlet dye for textiles.
Crimson is once mentioned in Chronicles as karmel,[301] which may mean
the dye of the kermes insect;[302] and from this the word crimson is
legitimately derived. Whether the scarlet coupled with it is a vegetable,
mineral, or insect colour, we have no means of ascertaining. “Though your
sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red as
crimson, they shall be as wool.”[303]

From what Pliny says, it appears that some green dyes were produced from
a green clay; others from metals. Copper furnished the most beautiful
shades.
Blue has always been extracted from indigo. Pliny tells us that the
Phœnicians brought it from Barbarike, in the Indies, to Egypt; and he
quotes the “Periplus” on this subject. He gives an amusing report that
indigo is a froth collected round the stems of certain reeds; but he was
aware of its characteristic property, that of emitting a beautiful purple
vapour when submitted to great heat; and he says it smells like the sea. The
Egyptians likewise extracted blues from copper.
Yellow was anciently, in Egypt, sometimes a vegetable and sometimes a
mineral dye. Browns and blacks were prepared from several substances,
especially pine wood and the contents of tombs burned into a kind of
charcoal.
We find that lime, chalk, white lead, and other mineral substances were
employed by the ancients for the different approaches to dazzling
whiteness. That of the lily, the emblem of purity, can only be emulated in
textile or pictorial art by opaque substances reduced as much as possible by
bleaching to the last expression of the colour of the raw material. Nothing
that is transparent can be really white, as colours are seen through it, as well
as the reflected lights on the two surfaces.
In painting, we can produce the effect of whiteness in different ways,
leading by the gradation of tender colours and shadows up to a high light.
But in textile art, which is essentially flat, it is necessary to pursue a
different method, and that of isolation is the most simple and effective, and
was well understood in Egypt, Greece, and India. The white pattern, or
flower, is surrounded with a fine dark line (black is the best), which
effectually separates it from all the surrounding colours, and gives it the
effect of light, even when the whiteness retains enough of the natural colour
of the raw material to tone it down very perceptibly. The eye accepts it as
white, and ignores the tint that pervades it, and is hardly to be expelled from
silk or wool. Linen and cotton are the whitest of materials, after passing
through the hands of the chemist or the bleacher.

It is amusing to observe that Pliny regarded colours, whether vegetable or
mineral, rather as useful for the pharmacopeia of his day, than as dyes or
artistic pigments. He speaks contemptuously of the art of his time, and yet
he gives some curious hints that are well worth collecting for experiment.
His fragmentary information, though often inaccurate, is most valuable to
those who are seeking once more to find lasting colours, and despair of
discovering mordants that will fix the aniline tints. From him we learn more
of the Egyptian colouring materials than of any others, as he named their
sources, European, Asiatic, or African; and there is no doubt of the
perfection of their mural pigments and textile dyes, which have remained
unimpaired to the present time.
Renouf says that “painting, as it is now understood, was totally unknown to
the Egyptians; but they understood harmony of colour,[304] and formulated
in it certain principles for decorative uses. They made the primary colours
predominate over the secondary by quantity and position. They introduced
fillets of white or yellow in their embroideries, as well as in their paintings,
between reds and greens, to isolate them; and they balanced masses of
yellow with a due proportion of black.” They never blended their colours,
and had no sense of the harmony of prismatic gradations, or the melting of
one tint into another; each was worked up to a hard and fast edge line. If in
one part of a building, one set of colours predominated, they placed a
greater proportion of other colours elsewhere, within the range of sight, so
as to readjust the balance. Those they employed were mostly earthy mineral
colours (used alike for frescoes and for painting cotton cloths, though
vegetable dyes were needed for woollens and linens). These were: for
white, pure chalk; for black, bone-black mixed with gum; for yellow, yellow
ochre; for green, a mixture of yellow ochre and powdered blue glass; for
blue, this same blue glass mixed with white chalk; for red, an earthy
pigment containing iron and aluminium.[305] They understood the chemistry
of bleaching, and the use of mordants in dyeing.[306]
The statistical records of China of the time of Hias (2205 B.C.), according to
Semper, mention colours as being of five tints, and all the produce of the
Chinese Empire.[307]
In the unchanging art of India, the ancient colours are used now. Therefore,
when we give the following list, we must suppose that it embraces all that

have been known from the beginning.
Indian dyes are mostly vegetable. For yellow, akalbir, the root of the
Datiscus Canabinus; also yellow is dyed with asbarg, the flower of the
Cabul larkspur (Delphinium sp.).
Orange. Soneri dyed with narsingar, the honey-scented flower of nyclanthes
(Arbor Tristis).
Scarlet is first dyed with cochineal (formerly with kermes), which gives a
crimson colour; next with narsingar, which turns it vermilion.
Purple is dyed first with cochineal (formerly kermes), afterwards with
indigo.
Lilac. Ditto, only paler.
Blue. All shades of indigo.
Green. With indigo first, and next the various yellow dyes.
Brown. Sandal-wood, called “sandali;” almond colour (Badami).
Grey. Sulphate of iron and gold.
Black. Deepest shade of indigo.[308]
Speaking of Indian coloured textiles, Sir G. Birdwood says: “All violent
contrasts are avoided. The richest colours are used, but are so arranged as to
produce the effect of a neutral bloom, which tones down every detail almost
to the softness and transparency of the atmosphere.” He says that in their
apparel both the colouring and the ornaments are adapted to the effect
which the fabrics will produce when worn and in motion. “It is only
through generations of patient practice that men attain to the mystery of
such subtleties.”
An outline, in black or some dark colour that harmonizes with the ground,
or else worked in gold, is common in Indian work, not only for the purpose
of isolating the colours of the design, but also to give a uniform tone to the
whole surface of the texture. Their traditional arrangements of tints were
thoroughly satisfying to the eye. But degenerated by European commerce,

the artistic sense of beauty itself is disappearing throughout our Indian
Empire.
Persian carpets (the fine old ones of the fourteenth to the seventeenth
centuries) give us lessons in the art of isolating colours. In these, a flower
will lie upon a surface which contains two or more other tints, and as the
design passes over them, the outline colour is changed, so as to isolate the
flower equally on the different grounds. This is done with such art that the
eye ignores the transition till it is called to remark it. For instance, as a
white, or no-coloured pattern, wanders over a green and red ground, the
outline changes suddenly from green to red, and again to green as it leaves
the opposite colour on the ground pattern.
Mr. Floyer speaks of the brilliancy and lasting qualities of the dyes which
the Persians, by slow and tedious processes, extract from plants; from the
“runaschk” (madder), a fine red; from the “zarili” (the golden), which is a
yellow flower from Khorasan, and also from the leaves of the vine, a bright
yellow.[309] They import indigo from Shastra (or from India), by the
Khurum river. He says these dyes are perfectly fast, leaving no trace on a
wetted rubber, whereas the European dyes they sometimes use come off
freely.
Pliny says the Gauls had invented dyes counterfeiting the purple of Tyre;
also scarlet, violet, and green, all of these were dipped in the juices of
herbs.[310]
Vitruvius says the Romans extracted dyes from flowers and fruits, but he
neither specifies nor describes them.
The ancient Highland tartans were dyed with bark of alder for black, bark
of willow for flesh colour. A lichen growing on stones supplied their violets
and crimson.[311] The lichen on the birch-tree gives a good brown; heather
gives red, purple, and green.[312]
Thus we see that pure colours for dyeing textiles have been extracted from
vegetable substances—herbs, wood, seeds, flowers and fruits, mosses and
sea-weeds;[313] mineral substances—earths, sands, ores, metals, rusts, and
stones; animal substances—both of land, water, and air; beasts, fishes,
shells, birds, and insects.

It is evident, from the derivation of the word, that there were chromatic
scales in colour before the phrase was ever applied to music.
The Greeks and Romans are supposed to have understood chromatic scales
of tints—animal, vegetable, and mineral—and except with the intention of
producing startling effects, they did not mix them. They felt that each was
harmonious as a whole, and, unlike the Egyptians, they studied harmony.
They arranged their scales according to the materials from which they were
extracted, and kept those from different chemical sources apart, as being
discordant.[314] One scale was that of the iodine colours, of and from the
sea. Marine products are mostly iridescent. To comprehend this, think of the
harmonious interchange of delicate tints, called by the ancients “purple,” on
a string of pearls. Shells and shell-fish, sea-weeds and fish, furnished these
dyes. They were called “conchiliata.”
The chemistry of the arts of bleaching was not unknown to the ancients; but
they reserved and regulated it for certain purposes, preferring to retain at
least a part of the original colouring, as shades of grounding which served,
as a surface glaze does in painting, to connect and harmonize the
superinduced tints.
Experiments with the object of reviving this mode of producing harmonious
combinations, have been made lately at the Wilton Carpet Works, by dyeing
shades of colour on unbleached goat’s and camel’s hair, and sheep’s wool;
and the tones produced are beautifully soft and rich.
M. Edouard Charton ascribes the great change in the modern scales of
colours to the discovery by the French, in the Gobelins, of a pure scarlet
dye, the use of which made it necessary to raise the tone of all other
colours. He says that scarlet was formerly represented by the dye called
kermes, which indeed was not scarlet, but altered from crimson to
something approaching it by the addition of narsingar, of which the bright
yellow gave the scarlet effect.
M. Chevreul, director of the dyeing department of the Gobelins, has
succeeded in composing the chromatic prism, to which I have already
alluded, containing 4420 different tones. We may take it for granted, that
from these may be selected any possible scale of tints required for

decorative work. This vast area for choice of our material will impose on
the artist of the future fresh responsibilities.
In the typical Oriental colouring, the whole arrangement was traditional,
and it was irreligious to depart from what had been fixed by statute many
centuries before, and only perfected by the experience of many generations
of men; and this veneration for traditional custom has hitherto been
prevalent in European art to a certain point. But the old conservative
perfection of unadulterated colour has already been done away with. The
freedom of experimental art is chartered, and mercantile interests now, as
ever, govern the supply of materials.
Our normal bad taste and carelessness has been cast back on the lands
which were the cradle of art, and we receive, to our surprise, gaudy, vulgar,
and discordant combinations from the East, whence we drew our first
inspirations. For the future we shall have to study ancient specimens, and
correct our errors by the help of their teaching to the eye and mind.
Gas colours are at present our worst snares. They are in general very
beautiful; but they are so evanescent, and fade into such unexpected and
contradictory tones, that we cannot reckon upon them. When embroidering
with the coloured materials of the day, we are in constant dread of what
disastrous effect may be produced by the first shaft of sunshine that may
fall from our moderately illuminated sky, through the uncurtained window.
The trade in colours can hardly be an honest one, till the means of fixing
each tint permanently is ascertained.[315] At any rate, something should be
done towards grouping them, with respect to their enduring qualities, so that
when they fade, if fade they must, they may do so harmoniously, and in
sympathy with each other; and while they are in their first glow they should
be selected, as much as possible, from what Pliny calls natural colours,[316]
which recall the exquisite effects of nature, searched out and displayed by
every sunny gleam, reflected on each other in lovely tones, and subdued
and veiled by passing shadows. It is said that Mr. Wardle, of Leek, is now
seeking for dyes of pure unadulterated colours, and mordants to fix them.
He deserves all success.
The reason I have entered, in even so cursory a manner, into the history of
colours is my desire to point out the great value placed, long ago, on the

careful preparation of those used in ancient textile art; and to show how our
forefathers sought them out in many lands and waters; how they noted their
varieties; how they classed and prized them for their endurance as well as
for their pristine beauty; how they paid their weight in gold or silver for
certain culminating tints; and how they, therefore, produced works which
became matters of history and landmarks in civilization.

FOOTNOTES:
[283] “Seeing, they saw not, neither did they understand.”
[284] See Pliny’s “Natural History,” which gives much information on the
subject.
[285] E. Curtius, “Greek History;” Engl. Trans., i. p. 438; Blümner’s
“Technologie,” p. 216.
[286] Charpentier “differentiates in every normal eye a sensibility for light, a
sensibility for colour, and a sensibility for form (a visual sensibility).”—See
“Modern Theories of Colour,” The Lancet, August 19th, 1882, p. 276. We can
perceive, by studying works of art, how variously these gifts are distributed, or,
at any rate, how differently they are received and acted upon by individual
minds.
[287] The effect of colour on the brain is a subject only just now beginning to
attract attention. Experiments on the insane have been made in Italy, especially, I
believe, at Venice; and it is said to be ascertained that red and green are irritants,
whereas windows glazed with blue glass alternating with white have sensibly
calmed the nerves of the patients.
[288] Let us compare the beautiful creations of the Venetian school with the
demoralizing brightness of aniline colours, or the opaque, earthy tints which
some call beautiful, mistaking their dulness for softness and sobriety of
colouring. But they, too, have their uses.
[289] Black and red are, in ecclesiastical work, the emblems of mourning.
[290] The Bardic rules in early Britain enjoined three simple colours: sky blue,
the emblem of peace, for the bard and poet; green, for the master of natural
history and woodcraft; spotless white (the symbol of holiness), for the priest and
Druid.
[291] The blind man said that red was like the sound of a trumpet, which shows
what a soul-stirring colour it was in his mind’s eye.
[292] “Purpura” is supposed to mean crimson velvet. It came, like “cramoisi,” to
be a name for a tissue. Fr. Michell quotes velvet of Vermeil-cramoisi, “violet and
blue cramoisi, and pourpre of divers colours,” but he says he never met with
“pourpre blanche.” Yule, ed. 1875, i. p. 67. Plano Carpini (p. 755) says the
courtiers of Karakorum were clad in “white purpura;” and that on the first day of
the great festival in honour of the inauguration of Kuyuk Khan, all the Mogul
nobles were clad in pourpre blanche, the second day in ruby purple, and the third
in blue purple: on the fourth day they appeared in Baudichin (cloth of gold).
(Yule, “Marco Polo,” vol. i. p. 376.) White purple is also named in the
inventories of Sta. Maria Maggiore at Rome, and those of Notre Dame in Paris.

“Histoire du Tissu Ancien, à l’Exposition de l’Union Générale des Arts
Décoratifs.”
[293] François Le Normant, in his “Grande Grèce,” tells of the dye of the purple
of Tarentum from the murex, found in the Mare Piccolo. He says that Tarentine
muslins, woven from the filaments of the pinna dipped in the dye of the murex,
rivalled those of Cos. Le Normant laments the total neglect of the murex in these
days (could its trade be revived?) Plutarch says that Alexander the Great, having
made himself master of Susa (Shushan), found, amongst other riches of
marvellous value, “purple of Hermione” worth forty thousand talents (Quintus
Curtius says fifty thousand), which, though it had been stored 190 years, retained
all its freshness and beauty. See Plutarch’s “Lives,” edited by J. and W.
Langhorne, vol. ii. p. 739; Blümner, i. p. 224-240. The reason assigned for their
dye being so perfect was that the Susanians knew how to comb the wool to be
dipped, and prepare it with honey. According to Aristotle the dress of
Alcisthenes, the Sybarite, was dyed with this purple from Shushan (Ciampini,
Vet. Mon.).
[294] Semper gives us an account of iodine colours. Some, he says, were
extracted from sea-weeds, green and yellow; the purples, when finest, from the
shell-fish. The Phœnician coasts gave the best purples; those of the Atlantic the
best blacks and browns. And thus he completes the scale of iodine colours. See
Semper, “Der Stil,” i. p. 206.
[295] Heaps of the shells of this “murex trunculus” have been found at Pompeii,
near the dyers’ works. Hardouin says that in his time they were found at Otranto,
and similar remains have been noticed at Sidon. Sir James Lacaita informs me
that the living shells are still found along the shores of the Adriatic, as well as on
the wash near Argos. No doubt the Phœnicians traded first in the produce of the
Sidonian and Tyrian coasts, though they afterwards went farther afield in
collecting their dyes. Auberville says that the purple of the Romans was a deep
violet (double dyed, purpuræ dibaphæ), and that this colour was Asiatic. The
Phœnicians traded in it, and sold it for its weight in silver. Instead of fading in
the sunshine, its colour intensified. The enduring nature of this colour is proved
by the purple fragments from a Greek tomb in the Crimea of about 300 B.C.,
described in chapter on stitches, p. 217. See “Histoire du Tissu Ancien, à
l’Exposition de l’Union Générale des Arts Décoratifs.”
[296] Though really red of the purest colour, it doubtless received its name of
Tyrian purple as being one of the materials of the amethystine double dye. The
web or fleece was first dipped in the dye of Purpura, and then in that of the
Buccinum, or they reversed the process to give a different tint. This is Pliny’s
account of the process of dyeing, which is very simple, and gives no details.
Semper says that the ancients called black and white the two extremes of purple
—white the thinnest, and black the thickest or most solid layer of colour. Both
were thus considered as colour. (Semper, i. pp. 205-7.) As long as there is light,
black always appears to be either blue, or brown, or green, till with darkness all
colour disappears.
[297] Exod. xxv. Semper (i. p. 103) suggests that these rams’ skins were dyed
with the periploca secamone—a plant still used for this purpose in Egypt.

[298] Jeremiah xxii. 14.
[299] Ezekiel xxiii. 14: “The images of the Chaldeans.” “The men portrayed in
vermilion on the wall.”
[300] Villiers Stuart, “Funeral Tent of an Egyptian Queen.” See Appendix.
[301] 2 Chron. ii. 7.
[302] The Arabs received the kermis from Armenia, and the name was originally
“Quer-més,” “oak-apple.” Sardis was famed for its kermes dye. See Birdwood,
“Indian Arts,” p. 238, ed. 1880, and Yule’s “Marco Polo,” i. p. 67.
[303] Isa. ii. 18.
[304] Renouf’s Hibbert Lectures, p. 67-69. It may be called balance, rather than
harmony.
[305] Wilkinson, “Manners of the Ancient Egyptians,” vol. iii. pp. 301-3.
[306] Blümner, p. 220. See Pliny, “Natural History,” xxxv. 42.
[307] Semper, i. p. 248.
[308] See Birdwood’s “Indian Arts,” p. 272. In the Code of Manu, black
garments are sacred to the Indian Saturn, yellow to Venus, and red to Mars. See
Birdwood, p. 235.
[309] See Floyer’s “Unexplored Baluchistan,” pp. 278, 373, 406. The Persians
produce their deep yellow from the skin of the pomegranate, by boiling it in
alum. Major Murdoch Smith describes the Persian processes for dyeing patterns
red and black in textiles. The Italian women dye their own dresses in the
pomegranate yellow; also in turmeric yellow, and other vegetable dyes.
[310] Pliny, “Natural History,” xxii. 3. Unfortunately, Pliny seldom condescends
to give us the recipes for dyeing processes.
[311] Logan’s “Scottish Garb.”
[312] See Elton’s “Origins of English History.”
[313] The Cretan tincture was extracted from a plant which Theophrastus,
Dioscorides, and Pliny respectively name. The last calls it the Phycos thalassion.
This was not a sea-weed, but a lichen—probably the same from which the orchid
purple of modern art is prepared. See Birdwood, “Indian Arts,” i. p. 238.
[314] The same scale of colour varies as much on the different textiles
employed, as it does from the colours extracted from other chemicals. Silk,
wool, cotton, flax, give very different results. The colouring matter may be
identical, yet you cannot place them side by side without being aware that they
may be repellant, instead of harmonious in tone. The scale is sometimes
removed to another pitch, and they will no more harmonize than instruments that
have not been attuned to the same diapason. See Redgrave’s Report on Textile
Fabrics.

[315] With the changes in colouring materials has arisen the necessity for
discovering new mordants. The gas colour of madder is exactly the same
chemically as that extracted from the vegetable, but the old mordant does not fix
it, and it changes very soon to a dull blackish-purple hue.
[316] Pliny, “Natural History,” ix. 12. The most unnatural, and the most
disagreeable dyes, are the magentas. Sir G. Birdwood tells us that the Maharajah
of Cashmere has adopted a most efficient plan for the suppression of magenta
dyes within his dominions—first, a duty of 45 per cent. on entering the country,
and at a certain distance within the frontier, they are confiscated and destroyed.

CHAPTER VI.
Part 1.

Stitches.

Stitches in needlework correspond to the touches of the pencil or brush in
drawing or painting, or to the strokes of the chisel in sculpture. The needle
is the one implement of the craft by which endless forms of surface-work
are executed. With a thread through its one eye, it blindly follows each
effort of its pointed foot, urged by the intelligent or mechanical hand
grouping the stitches, which, being long or short, single or mixed, slanting,
upright, or crossed, are selected as the best fitted for the design and purpose
in hand. The word “stitches” does not, however, in this chapter represent
merely the plural of one particular process of needle insertion, but the
produce and effect of each different kind of stitch by grouping and
repetition, according to its most ancient nomenclature. That which is
astonishing is the endless variety of surface, of design, of hints and
suggestions, of startling effects, and of lovely combinations, resulting from
the direction of the needle and manipulation of the materials, and differing
from each other according to the power or the caprice of the worker. But the
machine is always the same—the threaded needle strikes the same interval,
forming the “stitch.”
This venerable implement, the needle, has, through the ages, varied but
little in form. The attenuated body, the sharp foot, the rounded head, and the
eye to hold the thread, are the same in principle, whether it is found in the
cave-man’s grave, formed of a fish’s bone or shaped from that of a larger
animal; hammered of the finest bronze, as from Egypt, or of gold, like those
found in Scandinavia. A bronze needle was lately discovered in the tomb of
a woman of the Vikings in Scotland, and its value is shown by its being
placed in a silver case. Steel needles were first made in England in 1545, by
a native of India. His successor, Christopher Greening, established a
workshop in 1560 at Long Crendon, in Bucks, which existed there as a

needle factory till quite lately. The rustic poetic drama, entitled “Gammer
Gurton’s Needle,” performed at Ch. Coll., Cambridge, in 1566, was a
regular comedy, of which a lost needle was the hero. In those days the
village needle was evidently still a rare and precious possession.

Fig. 20.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, Bronze needles from Egyptian tombs now in British
Museum.
6. Cave-man’s needle from the Pinhole, Churchfield, Ereswell Crag.
7. Bone needle from La Madeleine, Dordogne.

The art of embroidery consists of a design, which includes the pattern, and
the handicraft or stitches—the “motive” and the “needlework.”
In painting, as in sculpture, the first idea, as well as the last touch, must
come from the same head and hand. But in needlework it is not so. The
pattern is the result of tradition. It is almost always simply a variation of old

forms, altered and renewed by surrounding circumstances and sudden or
gradual periods of change.
However much the design may alter, rising often to the highest point of
decorative art, and as often falling back to the lowest and most meaningless
repetitions and imitations, the stitches themselves vary but little. The same
are to be found in Egyptian and Greek specimens, and the classical names
are those used by mediæval writers, and have come down to us, “floating
like bubbles on the waves of time.”
Sir George Birdwood[317] thinks that every kind of stitch is found in
traditional Indian work. I confess that I have not been able hitherto to trace
any of the “mosaic” stitches to India, nor do we ever see them in Chinese or
Japanese embroidery, which shows every other variety. They are, however,
occasionally found in Egyptian work.
The following is a list of stitches, under the nomenclature of classical,
Roman and mediæval authors:—

Opus Phrygionium or Phrygium. Passing or metal thread work.
Opus Pulvinarium. Shrine or cushion work.
Opus Plumarium. Plumage or feather work.
Opus Consutum. Cut work.
Opus Araneum or Filatorium. Net or lace work.
Opus Pectineum. Tapestry or combed work.

Here are two English lists of stitches; their quaintness must be my excuse
for copying them. The first is from Taylor, the water-poet’s “Praise of the
Needle” (sixteenth century):—

“Tent work, raised work, laid work, prest work,
Net work, most curious pearl or rare Italian cut
work,
Fine fern stitch, finny stitch, new stitch, and
chain stitch,
Brave bred stitch, fisher stitch, Irish stitch, and
queen’s stitch,

The Spanish stitch, rosemary stitch, and maw
stitch,
The smarting whip stitch, back stitch, and the
cross stitch.—
All these are good, and these we must allow,
And these are everywhere in practice now.”
The second list is from Rees’ “Cyclopædia” (Stitches), 1819:—
“Spanish stitch,
Tent stitch on the finger,
Tent stitch in the tent or frame,
Irish stitch,
Fore stitch,
Gold stitch,
Twist stitch,
Fern stitch,
Broad stitch,
Rosemary stitch,
Chip stitch,
Raised work,
Geneva work,
Cut work,
Laid work,
Back stitch,
Queen’s stitch,
Satin stitch,
Finny stitch,
Chain stitch,
Fisher’s stitch,
Bow stitch,
Cross stitch,
Needlework purl,
Virgin’s device,
Open cut work,
Stitch work,
Through stitch,
Rock work,

Net work, and
Lent work.
“All which are swete manners of work wroughte by the needle with
silke of all natures, purls, wyres, and weft or foreign bread (‘braid’),
etc., etc.”

Part 2.

Plain Work and White Work.

We are told that the primal man and woman sewed in Paradise.
To “sew,” in contradistinction to the word to “embroider,” is derived from
the Sanskrit su, suchi, and thence imported into Latin, suo.[318] To prove
how highly esteemed needlework was among the Romans, I may mention
that the equivalent of the phrase “to hit the right nail on the head” was rem
acu tangere, “to touch the question with the point of the needle.”
“Plain work” is that which is necessary. As soon as textiles are needed for
covering and clothing, the means are invented for drawing the cut edges
together, and for preventing the fraying where the material is lacerated by
the shaping process. Hence the “seam,” the “hem,” and all the forms of
stitches that bind and plait. These necessary stitches constitute plain
needlework, and are closely followed by decorative stitches, which in
gradation cover the space between plain needlework and embroidery.
Semper has given us his archæological theories for the origin of needlework
and its stitches.
These are his arguments, if not always his words. He says: “The seam is one
of the first human successful efforts to conquer difficulties.”[319]
A string, a ribbon, a band, may serve to keep together several loose things;
but by means of the seam, small things actually become large ones. For
example: a full-grown man can, by its help, cover himself with a garment
made of the skins of many small animals. When Eve sewed fig-leaves
together, she made of these small pieces a garment of patchwork.

Acting on the principle of making a virtue of necessity, accepting and
adorning the severe facts of life, seams came to be an important vehicle of
ornament. The Gauls and Britons embroidered the seams of their fur
garments. “We may judge of the antiquity of the seam by its universal and
mythological meaning. The seam, the tie, the knot, the plait, and the mesh
are the earliest symbols of fate uniting events.”[320]
We find but little mention of plain work in mediæval writings. When linen
was worked for some honourable purpose, such as a gift to a friend or a
royal personage, it was generally embroidered or stitched in some fancy
fashion. Queen Elizabeth presented Edward VI., on his second birthday,
with a smock made by herself. Fine linen was about this time constantly
edged with bone laces.
Mrs. Floyer has written so well, and given us so much practical information
on plain needlework, that I feel it unnecessary to enter at any length into the
principles of plain sewing, as my theme is needlework as decorative art.
Mrs. Floyer has, as it were, unpicked and unravelled every stitch in plain
work, till she has discovered and laid bare its intention, its construction, and
effect. She, has also given us rules made clear to the dullest understanding,
instructing us how to teach the young and ignorant. She shows us the
quickest and most perfect way of working different materials for different
purposes, and tells us how to select them. I will, therefore, refer my readers
to her most useful and instructive books,[321] and pass on at once from the
craft of plain needlework, to stitches as the art of embroidery.
The link between plain and decorative work deserves attention. This link is
“white embroidery.” I imagine it was not a very ancient form of the art, and
was practised first in mediæval days; when we begin to have constant
notices of it. The first white laces appear to have followed close upon the
first white embroideries.
There is a tomb of the fourteenth century in the Church of the Ara Cœli at
Rome, where the effigy of a knight lies on his bed, draped with a sheet and
a coverlet, both embroidered. These are evidently of linen worked in white.
[322] I give a drawing of them in illustration (pl. 39).

From that date we find continually mention of such work by nuns and
ladies.[323] In England it was especially called “nuns’ work” (plate 42).
There is a great survival of this stitchery in Italy amongst the peasantry.
They have always adorned their smocks and aprons, and their linen head-
coverings, and the borders of sheets for great occasions, with patterns in
“flat stitches,” “cut stitches,” and “drawn work.” The Greek peasants do the
same. In Germany will be found much curious white embroidery, of designs
which show their antiquity; and from Spain we get “Spanish work” in
black, on white linen, which is nearly allied to the stitches of white work.

Pl. 39.

See larger image

Embroidery imitated in marble on the tomb of a knight, in the Church
of the Ara Cœli, Rome.

Lord Arundel of Wardour possesses a linen cover for a tabernacle (or else it
is a processional cloak) which is of the purest Hispano-Moorish design, and
unrivalled in beauty. It is embroidered in Spanish stitches in white thread,
on the finest linen, and is intersected with fine lace insertion (pl. 40). It is
said to have been found in the time of Elizabeth with some other articles in
a dry well; among them a little satin shoe, of which the shape proves its
date to be of the end of Henry VIII.’s reign. Russian embroidery, consisting
of geometrical patterns in red, blue, and black thread, is of this class.

Pl. 40.

See larger image

Processional Cloak, time of Henry VIII., belonging to Lord Arundel of
Wardour.

In England alone, the peasantry do no white work for home use, and we
must suppose it has never been a domestic occupation. Indeed, the love of
the needle is by no means an English national tendency, in the lower
classes. Nothing but the plainest work is taught in our schools. Anything
approaching to decorative art, with us, has been the accomplishment of
educated women, and not the employment of leisure moments in the houses
of the poor.
Semper, in “Der Stil,”[324] gives rules for white embroidery, and the reasons
from which he deduces them are good. He says, that allowing it as a maxim
that each textile has its own uses and its own beauties, we should place
nothing on linen which would militate against its inherent qualities and
merits; and that, as the great beauty of flax is its smoothness and purity, all
projections and roughnesses should be avoided which would catch dust or
throw a shadow. Carrying out this idea, it would appear that satin, and not
lace stitches are therefore, the most suitable for this kind of decoration. The
accepted rule for selecting the stitch for each piece of work is this: on stout
grounds the thread should be round and rich, whereas delicate materials
carry best the most refined and shining thread work; and in embroidering
the smooth surface of linen fabrics, the flattest stitches are the most
appropriate.

Part 3.

Opus Phrygium (or gold work).

Gold embroideries were by the Romans attributed to the Phrygians. All gold
work was vaguely supposed to be theirs, as all other embroidery was
included in the craft of the Plumarii in Rome.
It has been disputed whether needlework in gold preceded the weaving of
flat gold or thread into stuffs, or whether it was an after-thought, and an
enrichment of such textiles. I imagine that the embroidery was the first, and
that the after-thought was the art of weaving gold. Babylonian embroideries
appear to be of gold wire, as we see them in the Ninevite marbles.
An instance of the way golden embroideries were displayed among the
Greeks is that of the Athenian peplos, which, as I have already said (p. 32),

was worked by embroideresses under the superintendence of two
Arrhephoræ of noble birth. It was either scarlet or saffron colour, and
blazed with golden representations of the battles of the giants, or local
myths and events in the history of Athens.[325]
The art of the Phrygians, who gave their name in Rome to all golden thread-
work, has come down to us through the classic “auriphrygium” and the
“orphreys” of the Middle Ages. Semper thinks that the flat gold embroidery
was the first invented.[326]
The Phrygians had attained to the utmost perfection in tissue ornament
when the Romans conquered them, and finding their art congenial to the
growing luxury of Rome, they imported and domesticated it; both the
people and their work retaining their national designation. Pliny, ignorant of
the claims of the Chinese, gave to the Phrygians the credit of being the
inventors of all embroidery.[327] The garments they thus decorated were
called “phrygionæ,” and the work itself “opus Phrygium.” The term
“auriphrygium,” at first given to work in gold only, was in time applied to
all embroidery that admitted gold into its composition; and hence the
English mediæval term, “orphreys.”
All the gold stitches now called “passing” came from Phrygia; Semper
attributes all the “mosaic stitches” to the Phrygians, calling them “opus
Phrygionium.”[328] Gold stitches are splendidly exemplified in the
embroidered mantle of St. Stephen, of the ninth century. The only
somewhat earlier piece of mediæval gold embroidery with which I am
acquainted is the dalmatic of Charlemagne in the Vatican, richly
embroidered in fine gold thread; and the mantle of the Emperor Henry II. in
the Museum at Munich, worked by his Empress Kunigunda, who appears to
have been somewhat parsimonious in her use of the precious material.
Almost all ecclesiastical and royal ancient embroideries were illuminated
with golden grounds—golden outlines or golden flat embroideries. Later
still, raised gold thread work has imitated gilt carvings or goldsmiths’
jewellery; and we feel that it was at once removed from its place as
embroidery, and became an elaborate imitation of what should belong to
another craft.[329] Such deviations from the proper office and motive of

needlework are so dangerously near to bad style and bad taste, that they
always and inevitably have fallen into disrepute.

Part 4.

Opus Pulvinarium (or cushion work).

This “opus pulvinarium” is not only to be found in Oriental work, but it has
also survived in a very few fragments from Egypt.[330] One of these, in the
British Museum, is worked on canvas, in wool and flax; another in a white
shining thread, resembling asbestos, on linen or fine canvas. They are
regular “canvas” or “cross” stitches, and therefore, under mediæval
nomenclature, would be classed as “opus pulvinarium.” This name must
include all stitches in gold, silk, and wool, whether Phrygian, Egyptian, or
Babylonian in their origin, excepting the flat and lace stitches (plate 41).

Pl. 41.

See larger image

Mosaic Stitches.
1. Italian Pattern, sixteenth
century. From Frida
Lipperheide’s
Musterbuch. 2.
Scandinavian. Bock, i. taf.
xi. 3. Egyptian. From
Auberville’s “Tissus,” p.
1.

Semper’s term, “mosaic” stitches, is a good one, as it covers all that are
relegated into patterns in small square spaces, counted by the threads of the
textile on which they are laid.[331] He believes that the mosaic patterns and
cross stitches in needlework preceded the tesselated pavements, and formed
their first motive, though the stitch now refers itself back to the mosaic, at
least in name.

It is remarkable that in Chaldea and Assyria there still exist some ruined
walls, which are adorned with pilasters, panels, and other architectural
forms, covered with some sort of encaustic, imitating textile patterns.[332]
The effect is produced by means of a kind of mosaic work of small nails or
wedges of baked clay, with china or glazed coloured heads. These are inlaid
into the unbaked clay or earth, of which the walls are constructed, and while
binding it together, give the effect of the surface being hung with a material
which has a pattern worked all over in cross stitch.
The Chinese, the Chaldeans, and the Assyrians long continued to show in
their buildings the tradition of this style of decoration. In Egypt there has
been found some unfinished mural painting where the plaster has been
previously prepared by dividing it into small rectangular spaces, apparently
on the principle of the canvas ground for cross stitches.
The name “mosaic” stitch does not interfere with, or militate against the
classical appellation of opus pulvinarium, which means “shrine work” or
“cushion stitches.” These appear to have been from the first considered as
the best suited for adorning cushions, chairs, footstools, and the beds on
which men reclined at their feasts, as they are firmly-set stitches which will
stand friction.
Most of the work now done in Syria, Turkey, Greece, and the Principalities,
shows different forms of the mosaic stitches; so also does the national
Russian work, which is Byzantine. All these designs are conventional and
mostly geometrical.
This work, in the East, is generally the same on both sides. We may infer
that the spoil anticipated by Sisera’s mother, “the garments embroidered on
both sides, fit for the necks of those who divide the spoil,” was of this kind.
Thus we see that the “opus pulvinarium” has a very respectable ancestry;
and though it had somewhat degenerated in the early part of our century,
and had languished and almost died out under the name of Berlin wool
work, yet it has done good service through the days of mediæval art down
to the present time, both in England and throughout Europe (pl. 42); and it
will probably revive and continue to be generally used.

Though the least available for historical or pictorial work, and not by any
means the best for flower-pieces (as the squareness of the stitches refuses to
lend itself to flowing lines or gradations of colour, unless the stitches are
extremely fine, and the work, in consequence, very laborious), yet it finds
its especial fitness in all geometrical designs. It is also particularly well
suited to heraldic subjects.
A remarkable example of the use of cross stitches exists in the borders of
the Syon cope, in which the coats-of-arms are so executed. This is of the
thirteenth century; and besides these cushion stitches, it exhibits all those
which are grouped in the style called opus Anglicum or Anglicanum.

Pl. 42.

See larger image

Italian “Nun’s Work,” from a pyx cloth, sixteenth century.

Many charming designs for this kind of stitch may be found in the old
German pattern-books of the Renaissance (Spitzen Musterbücher), and also
in those Venetian “Corone di Vertuose Donne” lately reprinted by the
Venetian publisher Organia. These are worthy of a place in every library of
art.

It would seem best to place the chain stitch named “tambour” in this class,
as it naturally assimilates with the plaited and cross stitches. It is so called
from the drum-shaped frame of the last century in which it was usually
worked.

Part 5.

Opus Plumarium (or plumage work).

The “Opus Plumarium” is one of the most ancient groups, and includes all
flat stitches, of which the distinguishing mark is, that they pass each other,
overlap, and blend together. “Stem,” “twist,” “Japanese stitch,” and “long
and short” or “embroidery stitch,” belong to this class, to which I propose to
restore its original title of plumage work.
The origin of the name is much disputed, but it is supposed to have pointed
to a decoration of plumage work, and we find that feathers have been an
element in artistic design from the earliest times. There were patterns in
Egyptian painting which certainly had feathers for their motive (fig. 21, p.
208).
Semper, finding that birds’-skins were a recognized article for trade in
China, 2205 B.C.,[333] believes that they were used as onlaid application for
architectural decoration; and this is possible, for we still obtain from thence
specimens of work in different materials partly onlaid in whole feathers,
whereas sometimes the longer threads of the feathers are woven by the
needle into the ground web. In Her Majesty’s collection there are some
specimens from Burmah—creatures resembling sphinxes or deformed
cherubim, executed in feathers, applied on silk and outlined in gold. We
have likewise from Burmah, in the Indian Museum, two peacocks[334]
similarly worked; the legs and beaks are solidly raised in gold thread; and
the outlines also are raised in gold, giving the appearance of enamelling.
The cloisonné effect of brilliant colours, contrasted and enhanced by the
separation of the gold outlines, can be seen to perfection in specimens of
the beautiful Pekin jewellers’ work, where the feathers are inlaid in gold
ornaments for the head and in the handles of fans. Nothing but gems can be
more resplendent.

These survivals help us to
understand the casual mention
we find in classical authors, of
the works of the Plumarii,
which appellation was given at
last to all embroiderers who
were not Phrygians.[335]
We have other glimpses of
Oriental feather-work in
different parts of India.[336]
The use of feathers is common
in the islands of the Pacific. It
is native to the Sandwich
islanders; and M. Jules Remy
describes the Hawaiian royal
mantle, which was being
constructed of yellow birds’
Fig. 21. feathers through seven
Feather patterns, Egyptian. consecutive reigns, and was
valued in Hawaii at 5,000,000
francs. A mantle of this
description is the property of Lady Brassey.
In Africa, ancient Egyptian art furnishes us with traditional feather patterns
and head-dresses; and Pigafetta tells us of costumes of birds’ skins, worn in
the kingdom of Congo in the sixteenth century for their warmth; sea-birds’
feathers being highly esteemed.[337]
In America, where birds are most splendid, the art of the feather worker was
carried to the greatest perfection. It was found there by the Spaniards, and
recorded in all their writings for its beauty of design and execution, and for
its great value, equal to that of gold and precious stones.
Though now looked down upon, as being a semi-barbarous style of
decoration, because it exists no longer except in semi-barbarous countries,
we must consider feather work as a relic of a past higher civilization which

has died out, rather than simply as the effort of the savage to deck himself
in the brightest colours attainable.
Feather-work is a lost art, but the name of “opus plumarium” remains, and
proves that it was still recognized as such in the days of Roman luxury. The
name survived when the practice was all but forgotten in Europe,[338] and
the art itself disused, probably, because the birds of our continent rarely
have any lovely plumage to tempt the eye.
But the glory of feather-work was found again in Mexico and Peru, and the
surrounding nations, in the sixteenth century—praised, exalted,
demoralized, and crushed out by the cruelties of conquest. The Spaniards at
first brought home beautiful garments and hangings, representing gods and
heroes, all worked in feathers.[339] Under their rule the natives produced
pictures agreeable to the taste of their masters. Pope Sixtus V. accepted a
head of St. Francis, which had been executed by one of the ablest of the
“amantecas” (the name for an artist in feathers). Sixtus was struck with
surprise and admiration at the beauty and artistic cleverness of the work,
and, until he had touched and examined it closely, would not believe that
plumage was the only material used.
There are beautiful hangings and bed furniture at Moritzburg, near Dresden,
said to have belonged to Montezuma. They were given to Augustus the
Strong, King of Poland, by a king of Spain.
In the seventeenth century, and later, feather work was still an art in
Mexico, the convents continuing to preserve its traditions. Bustamente says
that this industry was still in operation in the beginning of our century. The
Mexican Museum preserves specimens of the last three hundred years, from
the time of the conquest of Mexico.
There is in the Cluny Museum, in Paris, a beautiful triptych, evidently of
the sixteenth century. It is worked in feathers, with delicate outlines in fine
gold thread. Nothing can exceed the tenderness and harmony of the
colouring in shades of blue, and warm and cool brown tints. This is
probably a survival of that lost art of Mexico which was carried on in their
convents, and may have been a copy of a treasured relic of European art.

Among the few noteworthy specimens that have survived, is the mitre of St.
Carlo Borromeo at Milan, described by M. F. Denis as being both artistic
and beautiful. He tells us in his Appendix that even now, a tissue of feathers
is woven in France, as soft and flexible as a silk damask; and rivalling the
Mexican scarlet feather fabric, which the Spaniards admired so greatly. He
also speaks of the inlaid feather work, invented by M. Le Normant of
Rouen, in the last century, and afterwards continued in Paris by his English
pupil, Mr. Levet, who sold two of his works to the then Duke of Leeds, in
1735. The first is a vase of flowers, the second a peacock, designed by M.
Oudry (peintre du Roi). Both of these, framed as screens, are now at
Hornby Castle.
Unfortunately feathers are, by their nature, most attractive to that greatest
destroyer, next to Attila—the moth. Ghirlandajo called mosaic in marble
and glass, “painting for eternity;” we may call feather work, “painting for a
day.”
From the essays of M. Ferdinand Denis,[340] much may be learned of the
arte plumaria of the Mexicans and their neighbours of Brazil, Guatemala,
Peru, and Yucatan, and the land of the Zapotecas, &c., where it was also
cultivated. He says that their civilization is so mysterious that we have as
yet no means of judging whence came their art.
Fergusson suggests the similarity between Central Asian and Central
American art, both in architectural forms and plastic and sculptured
remains. He thinks that its tradition was transmitted from Asia to America
in the third and fourth centuries of our era. If so, it was an unlucky moment
for the recipients, as the art of Asia, as well as that of Europe, was then at
its lowest and most debased phase; perhaps, however, the more fit for the
fertilization of that of a perfectly barbarous people. There is something
fascinating in the suggestions on this subject in Mr. Donelly’s “Atlantis;”
but when conjecture is only founded on tradition, and without proof, we
must not take it into serious consideration.
Having proved the universal use of feathers, it is not difficult to appreciate
the causes which suggested everywhere the transfer of this decorative art to
another craft, employing less perishable materials. Embroidery probably

followed it closely and absorbed it throughout Asia and in Egypt; and the
survivals now are only an accidental specimen, a tradition, and a name.[341]
The name “Plumarii,” for the embroideries, is thus fully accounted for, and
we need seek no further elucidation. It was commonly used in classical
Roman times. “Opus plumarium” seems to have become the legitimate term
for all needlework. The Plumarii were the embroiderers, whether their work
was in wool, or thread, or in silk (at a later period),[342] with or without
admixture of gold or silver (as the Argentarii were the jewellers).
The article on the word “plumarius” in Hoffman’s Lexicon,[343] after
describing two kinds of Plumarii, Phrygians and Babylonians, proceeds to
say, “These latter, who wove garments and hangings of various colours,
were called ‘Plumarii;’ but though this name was at first confined to
craftsmen who wove patterns in the shape of feathers, in course of time the
name was extended to those artists who, with the needle or by painting,
embellished robes.”[344]
The “opus plumarium” included, as I before said, all flat stitches; and I
repeat that “feather application” was certainly its first motive; and next
came the stitches that conveyed the same desired effect, though a new
material was employed, fitted for the needle, which, having served its
apprenticeship in “plain work,” now came to the front as a decorative agent.
Painting with the needle began with an attempt to model with it; the lay of
stitches being so arranged as to give the whole effect of light and shadow,
so as to delineate the forms without changing the shades of the material
used. I give on the opposite page some Japanese birds, which will explain
what I mean. The stitches are so intelligently placed as absolutely to give
the forms of the birds imitated. They represent plumage, and a more artistic
representation cannot be imagined. (Pl. 43.)
The same stitch which we find prevailing in China and Japan as plumage
work, is employed in embroidering flowers. Here satin, stem, and plumage
stitches are blended together, and excellent decorative effects are produced;
but the texture of flowers is not to be imitated, as is that of the plumage of
birds. “Satin” stitch is a more restricted form of plumage stitch; and “stem”
is another variety of these flat stitches, very useful in its place. I therefore
have assigned the name of “plumage stitch” to that hitherto called

“embroidery” or “long and short” stitches; and I give the term “plumage
work” to include all the “flat” stitches.
Practically, it is allowed that these flat stitches, especially the plumage
stitch, give most scope for freedom in needlework, as they are laid on at
once, and according to the inspiration of the worker, and may cover the
outline and efface it. The stitches are not counted, and have more of the
nature of touch than any others, as their length, thickness, and closeness
may be varied at will. The artist’s design thus admits of interpretation
according to the taste and feeling of the needlewoman.

Pl. 43.

See larger image

Japanese Opus Plumarium.

Part 6.

Opus Consutum (or cut work).

This is “Patchwork,” or “Appliqué” (“inlaid” and “onlaid”). Vasari calls it
“Di commesso,” and says that Botticelli invented it for the use of Church
banners, as being much more effective than any other style of work, or even
than painting, as the outlines remained firm (non si stinguano), and were
not affected by the weather (as in painted cloths) and were visible on both
sides of the banner. Botticelli drew with his own hand the baldachino of Or
San Michele, and the embroideries on a frieze carried in procession by the
monks of Santa Maria Novella; he died 1515. Perhaps he may have revived
the art of application in his own day.
There are, however, much earlier examples of patchwork, of which the first
and most remarkable is the Egyptian funeral tent of Queen Isi-em-Kheb,
mother-in-law of Shishak, who besieged and took Jerusalem three or four
years after the death of Solomon, B.C. 980. It may be described as a mosaic,
or patchwork of prodigious size, made of thousands of pieces of gazelles’
skins, dyed, and neatly sewn together with threads of colour to match,
resembling the stitching of a glove, the outer edges bound with a cord of
twisted pink leather, sewn on with stout pink thread (pl. 44). The colours
are described as being wonderfully preserved, when it is remembered that
they are nearly as old as the Trojan War; though perhaps their preservation
is less surprising than that the flowers wreathed about several royal
mummies of the same period should have shown their colours and forms
when the cases were first opened, so as to be recognized as blue larkspur,
yellow mimosa, and a red Abyssinian flower, massed closely together on
the foundation of a strong leaf cut in zigzags. Among the flowers lay a dead
wasp, whose worthless little form and identity were as perfectly preserved
as those of the mighty monarch on whose bosom it had completed its short
existence. The tent itself consists of a centre or flat top, divided down the
middle, and covered over one half with pink and yellow rosettes on a blue
ground; on the other half are six large vultures, each surrounded with a
hieroglyphic text which is really an epitaph. The side flaps are adorned first
with some narrow bands of colour; then with a fringe pattern; then with a
row of broad panels, red, green, and yellow, with a device or picture and

inscription in the two other colours; on this border there are kneeling
gazelles, each with a pink Abyssinian lotus blossom hanging to its collar.
The rest of the side flaps and the whole of the front and back flaps are
composed of large squares, alternately pink and green. This, for its
antiquity, its style, its stitchery, materials, and colours, is a most interesting
work of early art, and an example of the perfection to which it had attained.
It is remarkable how much variety of effect has been produced with only
four colours, by the artistic manner of placing and contrasting them. To our
more advanced taste, however, the whole effect of the contrasting colours is
inharmonious and gaudy, though certainly striking and typical.[345]
Another piece of Egyptian application, from the Museum at Turin, is a
pretty leaf pattern cut out in red stuff, laid on a white ground, and worked
down with a darker outline of the same colour.[346]

Fig. 22.
Piece of appliqué in red stuff and red outlines from Egypt.

Pl. 44.

See larger image

Funeral Tent of Isi-em-Kheb. From Villiers Stuart’s “Funeral Tent of
an Egyptian Queen.”

We have an instance of ancient “application” of about 600 years later,
Greek in its beauty of design and execution. Alas! we can only ascertain,
from tattered fragments taken out of a tomb in the Crimea, that it was
parsemé with figures on horseback or in chariots. The border is very
beautiful. Compare the fragments of which we have obtained a copy with
the mantle of Demeter, from a Greek vase, and you will perceive how the
styles correspond (Pl. 16, Fig. 23). The ground material is of the finest
woven wool, of a deep violet or purple colour, enriched with application of
another fine woollen fabric of a most brilliant green, worked down, outlined
and embroidered in white, black, and gold-coloured wool, apparently in
stem stitches.[347] The accompanying illustration gives the effect and
general design of the outer border only, in which the applied leaf is worked
down in red, gold, and white.

It is much to be regretted that the centre of the mantle is so tattered and
discoloured that it is impossible to do more than ascertain that the design
that is embroidered on it consists of figures on horseback or in chariots, in
spirited attitudes. The second and broader border is to be found (pl. 17).

Fig. 23.
Narrow border of a Greek mantle.

“Opus consutum” cannot in any sense perhaps be the name of a stitch or
stitches. But it applies to a peculiar style of embroidery employing certain
stitches. It is the term given to all work cut out of plain or embroidered
materials, and applied by “working down” to another material as grounding.
It includes all raised and stuffed application in silk, woollen, and metal
thread work. It has been given to all work in which the scissors are active
agents, whether in cutting out the outlines or in incising the pattern, as in
much of the linen and muslin embroideries of our day, now called “Madeira
work,” of which a great deal was made in the first part of the century by
English ladies who designed and collected patterns from each other, and
gave the produce of their industry as gifts to their friends for collars, cuffs,
and trimmings.[348]
“Cut work” is named by Chaucer, and is constantly to be found in
inventories from his time to the beginning of the last century. At Coire, in
the Grisons, is a very beautiful chasuble, of which the orphrey is of the
school of the elder Holbein or Lucas Cranach, applied and raised so as to
form a high relief. The figures are covered with satin and embroidered. The

chasuble itself is of fine Saracenic silk, woven with golden inscriptions in
broad stripes. The colours are brown, crimson, and gold.

See larger image

Wall Pilasters
Appliqué Cut-work, Italian XVI. Centry
Property of Countess Somers

In the later Middle Ages, a good deal of this work was executed in Germany
for wall hangings; figures were cut out in different materials, and
embroidered down and finished by putting in the details in various stitches.
As art they are generally a failure, being more gaudy than beautiful. This,
however, is not necessarily the case, for there is at the Hotel Cluny a
complete suite of hangings of the time of Francis the First, partly applied
and partly embroidered, which are beautiful in design and colouring,
especially the fruit and trophies in the borders.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries cut work was much employed in
Italy for large flowered arabesque designs, commonly in velvet or silk,
making columnar wall hangings, which are often very effective; giving the
rooms an architectural decoration, without interfering with the arrangement
of works of art, pictures, statues and cabinets, placed in front of them.
Besides, it was supposed that the utmost effect of richness was thus
accomplished with the least labour, and very large spaces and very high
walls covered, without losing anything of beauty by distance, as must be the
case when the work’s highest merit is in the delicacy of the stitches and the
details of form. (Pl. 45.)
The Earl of Beauchamp has inherited a most beautiful suite of hangings of
“appliqué work;” silks of many kinds are laid on a white brocade ground
with every possible variety of stitch, forming richly and gracefully designed
patterns; and showing to what cut work can aspire.
A great deal of “opus consutum” has been done in the School of Art
Needlework, in the way of restoration of old embroideries. Here may be
seen copies of different models of many periods; amongst other British
specimens, part of a bed at Drumlanrig, in which James I. slept. In this
work the application is cut out, raised and stuffed, and “couched” with
cords, and the whole thing is as stiff, strong, conventional, and enduring as
if it were a piece of upholstery that was carpentered yesterday, instead of
being needlework of at least 250 years ago.
One of the most remarkable large works of this style that exists was shown
in 1881, at the South Kensington Museum, during the Spanish Exhibition.
[349] It was of the kind called “on the stamp.” This was a landscape seen
between columns wreathed with flowers and creepers. In the foreground
couched a stag, the size of life—a wonderful reproduction of the hide of the
creature in stitches. The relief is so high that the columns appear to be
circular by the shadows they throw; and the stag is stuffed so as to be raised
about six inches. The work is superb, and causes pleasure as well as
wonder; and yet, in spite of the beauty of the design, and the richness of the
materials—gold, silver, silk, and wool profusely used—it is a divergence
from the legitimate art of embroidery, and is simply the attempt of the
needlewoman to combine again the arts of sculpture and painting with the

help of so inadequate an implement as the needle. Therefore, except as
being a marvellous and beautiful curiosity, it is a failure; it is not art.[350]
Practically, cut work is the best mode of arriving at splendid effects by
uniting rich and varied tissues.[351] The Italian curiosity vendors know this
well, and often cut up the remnants and rags of rich stuffs, old faded silks,
and scraps of gold and silver tissues, and with them copy fine old designs,
and sell them as authentic specimens of such and such a date.
I was once requested to give an opinion as to the date of a curtain border
bought in Italy, and on consideration I gave the following verdict: “The
design is of the sixteenth century; the applied velvet and gold cord, of the
seventeenth century; the brocaded silk ground, eighteenth century; the
thread with which the whole was worked—machine-made silk thread
(English)—middle of nineteenth century.” The whole effect was excellent,
and very antique.
This art of “application” is the distinctive part of the “opus consutum,” and
it is the best and most economical method for restoration of old
embroideries, of which the grounding material is generally worn out long
before the stitches laid upon it. Much beautiful work has thus been rescued
from annihilation, and restored to use from its long imprisonment in the
boxes and drawers of the garret and store-room. But it is cruel to transfer
historical or typical works, and so puzzle the artist and the historian.
It is so troublesome to embroider on velvet or plush, or gold tissues, that
application is the easiest and most effective mode of dealing with these
fabrics.[352] The outlines laid down in cord have the best effect, while
binding the edges and securing them from fraying, and it is almost certain
that the eye receives most pleasure, in flat art, from a defined outline, which
satisfies it; where there are no cast shadows, it lifts the work from the
background, and separating the colours, it enhances their beauty. It would
appear, however, as a rule, that either black or gold metal should invariably
be employed, because they do not interfere with any colour they approach.
White is distracting and aggressive. The Greeks sometimes used gold
colour instead of gold, as we see in the mantle from the Crimea already
referred to; but this is not nearly so agreeable to the eye as pure gold.

A great deal of modern “opus consutum,” or application cut work, has been
done in Constantinople of late years. The designs in general, are not artistic;
nor are the colouring and materials very commendable. The onlaid material
is, in general, sewn down with chain stitches, and cut out afterwards.

Part 7.

Lace.—Opus Filatorium or Araneum.

Mrs. Palliser says that from the earliest times the art of lace-making has
been so mixed up with that of needlework, that it is impossible to enter
upon the one without naming the other. This is, in fact, what she has done,
showing the intimate connection between the two in her charming work on
lace, where much information about embroideries in general, may be found
in the introduction.[353]
M. Blanc also considers that there is but a slight transition between
embroidery and guipure, which he says was the first lace.[354] As all the
earliest specimens and designs for guipure were Venetian, the art was,
therefore, probably an Italian invention, though an Oriental origin has
sometimes been attributed to it. The objection to this last theory is that we
find no ancient specimens, and no modern continuation of such work in the
East.
The word “guipure” is a stumbling-block. It has been applied to many
forms in the varying art of lace-making; which same variableness has
caused its nomenclature to assume the terms belonging to other textile arts
where they approach or touch each other, (as in netting, fringes, or
embroideries). The nearest approach to laces before the thirteenth century
was more in the nature of what we now call guimp.[355]
Embroidery differs from lace, in that it is worked on already woven tissues;
whereas lace is manufactured at once, both ground and design.[356] But the
link between the two is not missing.
In the twelfth century they worked “opus filatorium,” which consisted of
embroidery with the needle on linen, of which half the threads had been
drawn out, and the remainder were worked into a net by knotting them into

groups, then dividing, and knotting them again. [357] There is a piece of
work described in an old catalogue quoted by Rock. “St. Paul’s, London,
had a cushion covered with knotted thread: Pulvinar copertum de albo filo
nodato.” Here lace and embroidery touch each other.[358] Sir Gardiner
Wilkinson notices some early Egyptian work in the Louvre as “a piece of
white network pattern, each mesh containing an irregular cubic figure.”
This sounds much like lace-work.
It may be fairly asserted that the term “embroidery” embraces the craft of
lace-making, as almost all ancient and much modern lace is simple
embroidery, and formed entirely by the needle.
Some kinds of lace, however, are made by plaiting and twisting the threads
attached to bobbins round pins which are previously arranged in the holes
of a pattern, pricked on parchment or glazed paper.[359] The original motive
and idea of lace is a net. The patterns called by the ancients “de fundata,”
are netted designs meshed. You will see them constantly in Egyptian and
Greek art, both in wall painting and textile decoration. Homer speaks of
golden cauls, and so does Isaiah,[360] as adorning women’s heads. They also
mention nets of flax.
The capitals of the brazen columns adorned with “nets of chequer work” in
Solomon’s Temple are very curious.[361] And the author of “Letters from
Italy, 1776,” tells of the garment of a statue at Portici, edged with a border
resembling fine netting. Egyptian robes of state appear to have been
sometimes trimmed with an edging of a texture between lace and fringe.
[362]

Lace has been made of many materials in many ways. We may instance
“passementerie,” made with bobbins (bone lace), with or without pins, or
with the needle only, by hand. The materials have been gold, silver, silk,
thread (these two last white or coloured), the fibres of plants, and human
hair.[363] A lace called “yak” is made of wool or hair.
Bone laces in gold and silver, or the two mixed and interchanged, are
continually mentioned in the inventories of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and
seventeenth centuries. Bed hangings, chair and cushion covers, and table
cloths were constantly trimmed with gold and silver bone lace, and fringes

of the same.[364] Laces in coloured silks were made in Spain and the
Balearic Isles late in the last century.[365]
In 1542, a sumptuary law was passed in Venice, forbidding the metal laces
embroidered in silk to be wider than “due dita,” i.e. about two inches. This
paternal interference in the details of life is truly Venetian. It was intended
to “protect the nobles and citizens from injuring themselves and setting a
bad example.”
Perhaps this strict rule was relaxed in favour of crowned heads and royal
personages; for there is at Ashridge, among the relics of Queen Elizabeth’s
enforced visit, a toilet-cover of red and gold striped silk, with a trimming of
lace, four inches broad, of Venice gold and silver lace embroidered in
coloured silk. Specimens of these laces are rare, owing to the intrinsic value
of the metal. We must suppose the origin of these golden trimmings to
belong to a very early period. A piece of gold wire lace guimp was lately
found in a tomb near Wareham, and is supposed, with reason, to be
Scandinavian.[366]
M. Blanc describes lace as a “treillage” or network, and says it is made in
three ways. You may complete the ground first, and then work the pattern
with the needle. This he calls lace “pure et simple;” and he considers that it
differs from guipure in that the latter consists of flowers and arabesques
worked separately, and then connected with bars, lines, or meshes. This
guipure is the second mode of lace-making.[367] The third is by machinery;
but this has the inherent defect of all machine-made fabrics, to a practised
eye; i.e. a certain rigidity and coldness in the exactly repeated forms, in
which the human touch is wanting. It is curious how in art, even a
“pentimento” is valuable, recalling the hand that erred as well as created;
the attention that strayed, or reconsidered the design.[368]
M. Blanc, speaking of the beauty of point d’Alençon, praises it especially as
being entirely needlework. He names the different modes of lace-making,
and judges their merits. Of needle-made lace he says: “And the value of this
lace not only arises from its representing a considerable amount of labour,
but also because nothing can replace in human estimation the fabrics
produced by a man’s, and still less by a woman’s handicraft. However the
hand may have been restrained by the necessity of faithfully following, on

green parchment, the designs imagined and traced by another person, there
is always, even in copying an outline, an individuality, an imperceptible
deviation to the right or to the left, above or below the tracing, which
impresses on the design the accent of strength or weakness, of indecision or
determination.”[369] I would add, of intelligence or stupidity; of knowledge
or ignorance.
This is not the first time, and will certainly not be the last, that I shall have
sought to impress on the needlewoman the fact that her individuality cannot
fail to be strongly marked in her work; and I would urge her to carry out the
suggestions that her experience and her taste afford her, while seeking to
render faithfully the original motive of the designer. In lace-making, as in
all art, the interest and the life, as it were, is imparted to each specimen by
the attention and thought bestowed upon it.
Mrs. Palliser shows us, by her beautiful illustrations, how much variety may
be given to designs for lace-making, which have changed with each period
of contemporary art, and are markedly distinctive of their nationalities.
Mr. A. Cole’s lectures on lace, his volume of photographs, and M. Seguin’s
valuable work, are full of information.
M. Urbani de Gheltof’s “Technical History of Venetian Laces,” translated
into English by Lady Layard, is a beautiful little book and a worthy
imitation of the ancient lace-books of the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries.[370]
The subject has been so thoroughly discussed by adepts in connection with
its revival as a local industry in its original cradle, that I will confine myself
to a few observations on its history and its place in decorative art.
Fringes, Knotting, Netting, Knitting, Crochet, Tatting, and Lace-making,
are all parts of the same branch of ornamental needlework. They are all
“trimmings,” in the sense of being decorative edges to more solid materials.
They are not available as coverings for warmth or decency; but they serve
to give the grace of mystery to the object they drape or veil. They soften the
outlines and the colours beneath them, while they permit them to peep
through their meshes. They are hardly to be included in what is called high

art, having more affinity with grace, refinement and coquetry, than with
æsthetic culture or noble thought.
This tendency in lace work may be the reason that the masculine mind does
not, in general, appreciate these lovely textures, but rather despises them
(even when the designs are beautiful and ingenious), as being flimsy and
deficient in honest intention; whereas women have always greatly prized
them for their delicacy and refinement, and their great value, on account of
the time, trouble, and eyesight expended upon them. Their knowledge of
stitches also enables them to appreciate their variety, and the taste shown in
their selection and arrangement for carrying out each design.
Lace stitches are almost innumerable.[371] Upwards of a hundred are named,
and their variations are endless. But a volume would not suffice us for
entering into the details of the craft; many of its stitches have been imported
into embroideries in gold, silk, and crewels; and such adaptations are
always allowable, provided the effect is good.
We have every reason to believe that the claims of Venice as the first and
original school of lace-making have been satisfactorily proved.[372] Genoa,
Florence, Milan, especially the last,[373] followed suit. Germany, France,
[374] and Spain soon started their schools; but Lady Layard believes that
Spain received all her inspiration and the greater part of her laces from
Venice, which likewise sent teachers to France and to Brussels—or rather,
we may say, had many first-class workwomen decoyed from her
manufactories to assist in starting rival industries in other countries.[375]
The first pattern-books were printed in Venice in the sixteenth century; and
these “Corone di belle e virtuose donne,” as they are sometimes entitled,
[376] were imitated in France and Germany.

Venice was proud of her industry, and of the noble ladies who fostered it. It
is recorded in the “Virtù in Giocco of Giovanna Palazzi” that Giovanna
Dandolo, or “la Dandola,” (wife of the Doge Malapiero,) was the first
patroness of Venice laces. She also fostered the art of printing in Venice,
and is spoken of as a “principessa di gran’ spirito, ne di private fortune,”
and her memory is cherished in connection with these proofs of her
patriotism. We hear also that Morosin or Marosin, wife of the Doge Marin
Grimani, patronized Venetian lace-making. Her forewoman, or maestra,

was a certain Cattina Gardin, and through her the art was settled at Burano,
where it has been so lately revived.
At the Cathedral of Burano, is kept in the sacristy, perhaps the finest
existing piece of artistic lace of the sixteenth century. It contains many
groups of figures from the history of our Lord, beautiful both in design and
execution, worked in “Punti Fogliami,” and filled in with exquisite tracery.
This was the border of an antipendium.
Mrs. Palliser laments the extinction of the art in Venice, and says that but
one woman of the old craft had survived; but her elegy was premature, as
that old woman, by name Cencia Scarpariola, has lived to see hundreds of
girls at Burano reviving all the old traditions, having learnt from her the
secrets of the “mestiere,” or “mystery.” Under the patronage of the Princess
Margherita, now Queen of Italy, and with the active help and
superintendence of Countess Adriana Marcello and Princess Giovanelli,
most beautiful laces are now made in every old point, French and Flemish,
as well as Venetian. Pezzi, merli, and merletti are executed in the different
styles which include all lace-making, and of which we here give a list from
M. de Gheltof’s book:—
Net lace.
Cut lace.
Open lace.
Flowered lace.
Knotted lace.
Darning or square netting.
Venice point.
Burano point.
Drawn lace.[377]
Embroidered linen.[378]
The price of these laces is very high, but not beyond their value when we
consider the vast amount of skilled labour bestowed on them. We are often
told that old lace is cheaper than new, as an absurd fact, because the
antiquity of lace is supposed to add to its value. Yes, but principally as an
object of archæological interest; whereas that which is being made now is
supporting by its daily wage the needlewoman and her family, and perhaps

providing for her old age; and as the strain on the eye is very heavy, many
lace-workers early in life lose their sight, at least for all the purposes of
their craft.[379] For these reasons we cannot say that the prices required for
such luxurious trimmings are unreasonable. Zanon da Udine gives us an
idea of how costly they were in old times. He says that Giuseppe Berardi, a
lace merchant in Venice, made a profit of 75,000 francs on a commission
for a set of lace bed-hangings for the wedding of Joseph II., Emperor of
Germany, which proves the high prices paid for the new laces of their day.
Blond laces, which take their turn occasionally as fashionable trimmings,
veils, and Spanish mantillas, are so called from their original Venetian
name, “merletti biondi,” pale laces. De Gheltof derives this appellation
from the celebrated collar of Louis Quatorze, and fancies it was made of the
fair hair of the workers; but this is only vague conjecture. The term was
applied in the seventeenth century to laces in silk, gold, and silver—never
to thread laces. I confess I do not find the reason for the name, but accept
De Gheltof’s information that it was given by the authority of the
magistrates of Mercanzia in 1759.
This is but a very slight sketch of the history of lace. Venice being its
birthplace, and likewise the busy scene of its rehabilitation, I have lingered
over its school, and left but little space for the discussion of those of Spain,
Flanders, Belgium, and France. But these have been thoroughly
investigated, and their individual merits are well appreciated, both as
antique and modern dress decoration.
I have already said that the lace schools in France were instituted by
Colbert, who placed one at Auxerre, under the especial care of his brother,
the bishop of that city. Louis Quatorze made it one of his splendid caprices,
and not only set the example, but forced the fashion into this luxurious and
extravagant channel.
In Spain, lace was made to look its best by being worn stretched over the
great hoops of the “Guard-Infante;” and the fashion spread all over Europe.
The white laces, resembling carved ivory or those in gold and silver, which
remind one of solid jewellers’ work, when spread over the surface of these
fortified outworks, guarding from all approach the persons of the Infantas
of Spain, assume in the portraits by Velasquez, a dignity which is in keeping

with their value. The splendid designs show brilliantly on a background of
scarlet, rose colour, or black silk; and that which, hanging loosely, looks
only tawdry and ragged, had a magnificent effect when thus displayed.
For ecclesiastical purposes, these grand solid laces seem most appropriate,
being effective in large spaces, and easily seen at a distance, hanging over
the edge of the altar, as a border to the linen cloths, or finishing the white
alb of the officiating priest.
One cannot but agree with M. Blanc, who points out that each piece of lace
had its intention, and that a fashionable ball-dress trimmed with the edging
of an antique altar-cloth in loops, is in false taste, to say no worse of the
misappropriation.
Though we have had no schools of lace in England (unless we can call our
imitative industries schools), we have samplers of the time of Queen
Elizabeth, and down to the middle of the last century, showing that drawn
lace and cut lace were regularly taught, probably as an accomplishment, by
Italians. The laces of Devonshire and the Isle of Wight (called Honiton)
form a group totally distinct from those of Northamptonshire, Bedfordshire,
and Oxfordshire, which last are very simple cushion bobbin-laces.
From the sixteenth century English ladies have, for their amusement, made
cut laces. Still, we must confess we have no national style of lace, and the
only enduring ones have been those of France and Belgium, which have
always kept the lead since their establishment, though fluctuating in design
with the varying fashions of each epoch. Perhaps the reason of their
longevity is that they have followed always the taste of their day. That of
our time being decidedly archæological, ancient patterns are now the most
successful.
There is a kind of embroidery darned-work, called “Limerick lace,” which
is said to be only made in Ireland, and being partly machine-made, is not
pure lace, and therefore little esteemed. Very fine thread laces have been
produced at Irish work schools; but no commercial result has followed.
Clever imitations of Venice point have come from Ireland lately, called
“raised crochet.” This is a novelty, and it is extremely fine and beautiful
work.

Pl. 46.

See larger image

Egyptian “Gobelins,” Woven and Embroidered.

The Exhibition of Irish Lace in London (June, 1883), shows how
widespread have been the efforts of Irish ladies to employ the peculiar
genius of the sister island for delicate work with the needle, which has
always been shown in their beautiful embroideries on muslin and cambric.
It appears that every kind of lace, except, perhaps, Brussels point, has been
made in Ireland within the last 180 years; but as in each case the effort was
always that of one individual woman, the school fell away when she died.
The names of these ladies are now worthily recorded in the official
catalogue of the exhibition, with photographs of the specimens produced

under their superintendence and care. Perhaps a permanent industry may
crown, however late, their exertions to help the women of Ireland.

Part 8.

Tapestry—Opus Pectineum.

It is necessary to define precisely what is meant by the word “tapestry.”[380]
The term has been applied to all hangings, and so caused confusion between
those that are embroidered with a design, on a plain or brocaded woven
material, and those which are inwoven with the design from the first.[381]
This latter was called in classical language, “opus pectineum,” because it
was woven with the help of a comb (the “slay”),[382] to push the threads
tight between each row of stitches; and the individual stitches were put in
with a sort of a needle, or by the fingers only, and laid on the warp. It was
thus practised by the Egyptians, by the Persians, Indians, and Peruvians;
and in Egypt was often finished by embroidery. (Pl. 46.) In Egyptian tombs
we have evidence of their tapestry, from the mural paintings representing
men and women weaving pictures in upright looms. The comb which
served to push the threads together after the stitches were laid in is
sometimes found in the weaver’s tomb.
We have, in the British Museum, pieces of “opus pectineum” from
Saccarah, in Egypt; and also fragments from a Peruvian tomb, of barbarous
design, but the weaving is equal to the Egyptian; and both resemble the
Gobelins weaving of to-day. Whence came the craft of the Peruvians?
Tapestry is woven in two ways, by a high or by a low-warp loom (haute-
lisse or basse-lisse), vertical or horizontal. The “slay” is the implement
which is peculiar to the craft. I shall not enter into any description of the
mode of working the looms, as this has been thoroughly well done by
masters of the art.[383] But I would call attention to the Frontispiece, copied
from a Greek vase, where Penelope is portrayed sitting by her haute-lisse
frame. I also refer the reader to the illustration from the Rheims tapestries,
in which a mediæval artist shows the Blessed Virgin weaving at one that is
horizontal or “basse-lisse.” (Pl. 47.)