ue to her ideal. The Virgin of San Zaccaria is more
thoughtful and reflective, but she holds her child up bravely, that he
may give his blessing to mankind.

[Illustration: GIOVANNI BELLINI.--MADONNA BETWEEN ST.
GEORGE AND ST. PAUL. (DETAIL.)]

It will have been noticed that the throne is an especially appropriate
setting for the Madonna as Witness. It is one of the functions of
royalty that the queen should show the prince to his people. We
therefore turn naturally to this class of pictures for examples. To
those of Bellini just cited we may add, from the others mentioned in
the second chapter, the Madonnas by Cima, by Palma, and by Montagna in
Venetian Art; and by Luini and by Botticelli in the Lombard and
Florentine schools respectively. Luini's picture is one which readily
touches the heart. The Virgin unites the sweetness of fresh, young
motherhood with womanly dignity of character. Her smile has nothing
of mystery in it; it is simply sweet and winning. The Christ-child is
a lovely boy, steadying himself against his mother's breast, and yet
with an air of self-reliance. The two understand each other well.

[Illustration: LUINI.--MADONNA WITH ST. BARBARA AND ST.
ANTHONY.]

One could hardly imagine two more dissimilar spirits than Luini and
Botticelli. To Luini's Virgin, the consciousness of her son's
greatness is a proud honor, accepted seriously, but gladly. To
Botticelli, on the other hand, it brings a profound melancholy. This
is so marked that at first sight almost every one is repelled by
Botticelli, and yields only after long familiarity to the mysterious
fascination of the sad-eyed Madonna, who holds her babe almost
listlessly, as her head droops with the weight of her sorrow. Her
expression is the same whatever her attitude, when she presses her
babe to her bosom as the Mater Amabilis (in the Borghese Gallery at
Rome, in the Dresden Gallery, and Louvre), or when, as witness to her
son's destiny, she holds him forth to be seen of men. It is in this
last capacity that her mood is most intelligible. She seems oppressed
rather than humbled by her honors; reluctant, rather than glad to
assume them; yet, with proud dignity, determined to do her part,
though her heart break in the doing. Her nature is too deep to accept
the joy without counting the cost, and her vision looks beyond
Bethlehem to Calvary. This is well illustrated in the picture of the
Berlin Gallery.[6] The queen mother rises with the prince to