enemies of Savonarola's adherents.

Such is the outline of Botticelli's life. We will now look at such
of the pictures in this room as have not been mentioned.

Entering from the Sala di Leonardo, the first picture on the right is
the "Birth of Venus". Then the very typical circular picture--a shape
which has come to be intimately associated with this painter--No. 1289,
"The Madonna of the Pomegranate," one of his most beautiful works,
and possibly yet another designed for Lucrezia Tornabuoni, for the
curl on the forehead of the boy to the left of the Madonna--who is
more than usually troubled--is very like that for which Giuliano de'
Medici was famous. This is a very lovely work, although its colour
is a little depressed. Next is the most remarkable of the Piero de'
Medici pictures, which I have already touched upon--No. 1286, "The
Adoration of the Magi," as different from the Venus as could be:
the Venus so cool and transparent, and this so hot and rich, with
its haughty Florentines and sumptuous cloaks. Above it is No. 23,
a less subtle group--the Madonna, the Child and angels--difficult to
see. And then comes the beautiful "Magnificat," which we know to have
been painted for Lucrezia Tornabuoni and which shall here introduce a
passage from Pater: "For with Botticelli she too, although she holds in
her hands the 'Desire of all nations,' is one of those who are neither
for Jehovah nor for His enemies; and her choice is on her face. The
white light on it is cast up hard and cheerless from below, as when
snow lies upon the ground, and the children look up with surprise
at the strange whiteness of the ceiling. Her trouble is in the very
caress of the mysterious child, whose gaze is always far from her,
and who has already that sweet look of devotion which men have never
been able altogether to love, and which still makes the born saint an
object almost of suspicion to his earthly brethren. Once, indeed, he
guides her hand to transcribe in a book the words of her exaltation,
the 'Ave,' and the 'Magnificat,' and the 'Gaude Maria,' and the young
angels, glad to rouse her for a moment from her devotion, are eager
to hold the ink-horn and to support the book. But the pen almost
drops from her hand, and the high cold words have no meaning for her,
and her true children are those others among whom, in her rude home,
the intolerable honour came to her, with that look of wistful inquiry
on their irregular faces which you see in