Of course in Portraiture, though he succeeds always, he succeeds best when his themes are the best. With the exception of ‘Clément de Jonghe,’ with the exception of ‘Lutma,’ with the exception perhaps of ‘Jan Six’--etched by him many years before he wrought the noble painted portrait which is owned still by a descendant of its sitter (Mr. Six van Hillegom of Amsterdam)--Rembrandt is most profoundly interesting, most penetrating, most sympathetic, when it is this or that member of his own family who serves as his model. Once or twice at least he portrayed the features of his son; several times those of his mother, whom in the ‘Mère de Rembrandt au voile noir’ he records in an hour of austere and guarded meditation, as in the ‘Head of a Woman lightly etched’ he records her in the relaxation of social ease. Many times, in drawing, print, and picture, he portrayed his wife, Saskia--in moods that seemed to vary with his own: now perched upon his knee, in the Dresden canvas of almost aggressive buoyancy and self-satisfaction; now demure and pretty, in a Berlin drawing; now radiant and almost stately in the ‘Great Jewish Bride,’ so it is said--though I find least witness of her here--now the healthy, blameless animal of Mrs. Joseph’s golden canvas; now the sick, worn woman, with vitality gone, eye dimmed, life surely ebbing, of the lovely and pathetic little etching which Sir Seymour Haden was, I think, the first to christen ‘The Dying Saskia.’ But oftener than he depicted any member of his family--and oftener much than he thought fit to give expression to the cordial youthful face and ample contours of Hendrickje Stoffels, the agreeable consolation of his age--he had recourse to his own countenance. In the great series of what the Germans call ‘self-portraits’ we may trace the changes in his air from spirited youth to burdened years. To-day he is comely, clean, and fit. To-morrow, after a night of revelry, it may be--for from few human experiences did Rembrandt, any more than Goethe, stand aside--he is haggard and ‘to pieces.’ Then he is proud in cap and feather; he buckles on his sword. Or, aged a little, he paints himself in loose gown, palette in hand, it may be, and mahl-stick at his side. Then, heavy and stooping, baggy below the eyes, with mouth tender yet saddened, trouble has come upon him from all the ends of the earth. He totters, scarcely yet irresolute, but weighed down certainly by years and sorrows; his wife long gone; his fame obscured; his means narrow; and, save for the sustaining power of his art, and one hopes, at least, for the consolation of one deep affection, anxiety in all his hours. We will not leave him like this--though like this we find him in Lord Iveagh’s immortal picture, and in one or two representations of kindred character in Vienna and at St. Petersburg. We will leave him happy in his drawing. It is an etching of scarcely surpassable interest, existing in many ‘States’--a print to be avoided in the