This he called 'making his
models sit to him.' And in this close adherence to reality consisted
the great secret of his art. It is strange that his favourite
amongst all his pupils was the one whose style least resembled his
own--Gerard Douw--he who aimed at the most excessive minuteness of
delineation, who stopped key-holes lest a particle of dust should
fall on his palette, who gloried in representing the effects of
fresh scouring on the side of a kettle.
Rembrandt died in 1674, at the age of sixty-eight. He passed all his
life at Amsterdam. Some of his biographers have told erroneously
that he once visited Italy: they were deceived by the word
_Venetiis_ placed at the bottom of several of his engravings. He
wrote it there with the intention of deluding his countrymen into
the belief that he was absent, and about to settle in Italy--an
impression which would materially raise the price of his
productions. Strange and sad it is to see so much genius united with
so much meanness--the head of fine gold with the feet of clay.[4]
* * * * *
[Footnote 3: This picture is believed to be no longer in existence. I have
found its description in the work of the historian Decamps.]
[Footnote 4: Abridged from the French of J. de Chatillon.]
ELECTIONEERING CURIOSITY.
[In giving the following address of an American candidate,
we must beg our readers to understand that it is not
intended as a joke.
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