e lowest compartment, divided into
three, of an altar-piece) is perhaps, besides the Orvieto _Resurrection_,
his most superb and poetical work. The figures, only three inches high,
have his highest quality of powerful grandeur, solemnly rustic in the
kneeling shepherds--solemn in the very swagger, hand on hip, of the
parti-coloured bravoes of the Magi; the landscape, only a few centimetres
across, is one of the amplest and most austere that ever has been painted:
a valley, bounded by blue hills and dark green ilex groves, wide, silent,
inhabited by a race larger and stronger than the human, with more than
human passions, but without human speech. In it the Virgin is seated
beneath a portico, breathing, as such creatures must breathe, the vast
greenness, the deep evening breeze. And to her comes bounding, with
waving draperies and loosened hair, the Archangel, like a rushing wind,
the wind which the strong woman is quietly inhaling. There is no religious
sentiment here, still less any human: the Madonna bows gravely as one
who is never astonished; and, indeed, this race of giants, living in
this green valley, look as if nothing could ever astonish them--walking
miracles themselves, and in constant relation with the superhuman.

We must forget all such things in turning to that Annunciation of
Botticelli. The angel has knelt down vehemently, but drawn himself back,
frightened at his own message; moved overmuch and awed by what he has to
say, and her to whom he must say it; lifting a hand which seems to beg
patience, till the speech which is throbbing in his heart can pass his
lips; eagerness defeating itself, passionate excitement turned into awe
in this young, delicate, passionate, and imaginative creature. He has
not said the word; but she has understood. She has seen him before; she
knows what he means, this vehement, tongue-tied messenger; and at his
sight she reels, her two hands up, the beating of her own blood too loud
in her ears, a sudden mist of tears clouding her eyes. This is no simple
damsel receiving the message, like Rossetti's terrified and awe-stricken
girl, that she is the handmaid of the Lord. This is the nun who has been
waiting for years to become Christ's own bride, and receives at length
the summons to him, in a tragic overpowering ecstasy, like Catherine in
Sodoma's fresco, sinking down at the touch of the rays from Christ's
wounds. Nay, this is, in fact, the mere long-loving woman, suddenly
overcom