ate
to the warm red colour of the tablecloth, which lends the picture an
additional depth.

I don't know whether this picture was very much discussed by Rembrandt's
contemporaries when it was finished. But to us, who have seen so much of
the art of the great Italians, Germans, and Spaniards, these heads are
the highest achievement of the art of painting.

When I was in Madrid, where I was charmed by Velasquez' work, our party
was one day walking through the broad streets of the capital. Passing a
large, picturesque building, our attention was attracted by a gaudy
poster informing us that an exhibition of the works of modern Spanish
artists was being held within. Our curiosity being aroused, we entered,
and found that in this country, where so many famous artists lived and
worked, there are among the modern artists many studious, highly
talented men, who serve their art with true love and devotion. But
suddenly it seemed as if we had been carried by magic from Spain back to
Amsterdam. We had come face to face with a copy of the "Syndics,"
painted by a Spanish artist during a stay in Amsterdam.

Was it national prejudice, or was it conviction? I don't know; but this
copy spoke to us of a spirit of greater simplicity, of a truer
conception of the nature and dignity of mankind than anything we had
admired in the Prado. Yes; this picture even kills its own Dutch
brothers. It makes Van der Helst look superficial, and Franz Hals
unfinished and flat. So much thoroughness and depth combined with such
freedom and grace of movement is not to be found anywhere else.

These people have lived on the canvas for centuries, and they will
outlive us all. And the man who achieved this masterpiece was at the
time of its production a poor, struggling burgher living in an obscure
corner of the town where his tercentenary festival was lately
celebrated.

III

But this is not the place for the sad reflections which are awakened in
our minds on examining the records of him whose name the world now
glorifies and raises to the skies. Better to honour the great master
who, for so many centuries, has held the world in awed admiration. There
is no need to-day to drag Rembrandt forth from the obscurity of the past
to save him from oblivion; we were not obliged to cleanse his image from
the dust of ages before showing to the world this unequalled genius to
whom Holland proudly points as one of her own sons.

On the contrary, never was Rembr