ed this child as a
focus for the light, and a contrast with all the downward lines and dark
colours?"

The man with the banner in the background, the dog running away, all
these details help each other to carry out the effect of line and
colour. There is not a square inch in this canvas which does not betray
a rare talent. This is a case in which the assertion, "Cut me a piece
out of a picture and I will tell you if it is by an artist," could
successfully be applied.

Now, I hope my readers won't object to accompanying me a little further,
and stopping with me before the "Syndics." There it hangs, the great
simple canvas, quite different in character from the "Night Patrol."

Everything here is dignified and stately. The whole picture is a
glorious witness to the consummate knowledge the master possessed of
expressing the individual soul in the human face. Here they sit, those
old Dutch fathers, assembled in solemn conclave, debating about their
trade, with the books on the table in front of them; and Rembrandt has
painted these heads so true to life that in the course of years they
have become like old friends; yes, old friends, though they lived
hundreds of years before we were dreamt of.

How long have I known that man on the left, with his hand on the knob of
his arm-chair, and the fine grey hair on his broad wrinkled brow showing
from under the high steeple-hat? The flesh tints in the face, whether
catching the full light, or partly veiled by shadows, display an endless
variety of shades, and the neutral greens and reds, greys and yellows,
are put against each other in such a wonderful manner that an effect
has been attained which strikes us dumb with admiration. The way in
which he is made to stand out from the background is in itself
marvellous, but just look at the man! how full of life and understanding
is the look in those eyes. It is something quite unique, something
Rembrandt himself has never surpassed.

And then there are the other figures; the man who is leaning forward;
the one sitting right in front of the book, his neighbour; even the
fifth merchant on the right, with his servant behind him--one and all
are full of life and light.

The background is such as Rembrandt only, with his understanding of
lines, could have devised. The wall and the panelling shut in the
composition in such a way that one cannot possibly imagine it ever
having been otherwise. And even this skilful touch is made subordin