passes as such. In a way this may be said to be a moral influence, as a
larger mind is less likely to harbour small meannesses. But this is not
the kind of moral influence usually looked for by the many, who rather
demand a moral story told by the picture; a thing not always suitable to
artistic expression.

One is always profoundly impressed by the expression of a sense of bulk,
vastness, or mass in form. There is a feeling of being lifted out of
one's puny self to something bigger and more stable. It is this splendid
feeling of bigness in Michael Angelo's figures that is so satisfying.
One cannot come away from the contemplation of that wonderful ceiling of
his in the Vatican without the sense of having experienced something of
a larger life than one had known before. Never has the dignity of man
reached so high an expression in paint, a height that has been the
despair of all who have since tried to follow that lonely master. In
landscape also this expression of largeness is fine: one likes to feel
the weight and mass of the ground, the vastness of the sky and sea, the
bulk of a mountain.

On the other hand one is charmed also by the expression of lightness.
This may be noted in much of the work of Botticelli and the Italians of
the fifteenth century. Botticelli's figures seldom have any weight; they
drift about as if walking on air, giving a delightful feeling of
otherworldliness. The hands of the Madonna that hold the Child might be
holding flowers for any sense of support they express. It is, I think,
on this sense of lightness that a great deal of the exquisite charm of
Botticelli's drawing depends.

The feathery lightness of clouds and of draperies blown by the wind is
always pleasing, and Botticelli nearly always has a light wind passing