The house in which Rembrandt lived during his prosperity was a three story structure opening onto the Breedstraat at the entrance to the Jewish quarter of the city. Its situation here gave the artist fine opportunity for observing this interesting people for whom he always had a great liking. If we enter the house as it was in Rembrandt's occupancy, we shall find it a little short of a palace.

His own art and that of others greets us in the very hall-way, for even here are beautiful pictures. In the parlor are Spanish carved chairs upholstered with rich velvet. In the center stands an elaborately carved table of black walnut, loaded with portfolios of rare etchings and drawings. Upon the walls hang beautiful and costly pictures—here a head by Raphael, there a rich Venetian scene by Palma Vecchio. In the corners are cabinets filled with curious gems and beautiful vases, while on a little table yonder is spread a piece of rare tapestry from Tourney.

Beyond is the drawing room where Rembrandt and Saskia spent so many happy hours, and where he etched and painted her over and over again. Here was etched that dainty portrait of few strokes under which Rembrandt wrote, "Saskia, my three days' bride." Here was the scene of that famous picture now in the Dresden gallery, in which Rembrandt, quite unlike his usual sedate self, holds on high a tall glass, while Saskia from her perch upon his knee, looks out at the spectator, with just a suggestion of a smile playing about her lips. On the table just at hand is a pie, gorgeously dressed out with the body and tail of a peacock.

In this room, too, where armor of various dates graced the walls, was a picture, perfect in drawing and splendid in coloring, which the master valued very highly. It was by Rubens, Rembrandt's famous Flemish contemporary. Why these two men never met, why Rubens never mentions the great Dutch master is always a great mystery to the students of both men. To return to the drawing room—the side-board was loaded with rare glass from Venice, silver tankards and a good wine, although the master seldom drank. There were marble wine coolers, and across one end of the room a great fire-place where roaring logs and dying embers alike gave comfort.

Back of this was Saskia's room, all blue and white like the cloud-flecked sky on the day of the wedding. It was an ample room, and besides serving as sleeping apartment, it was a sort of living room for the family. We can imagine an evening with the artist's family in this room. The master sits at the table etching perhaps some new portrait of Saskia, or their boy, Titus. Saskia sits by occasionally dropping some cheerful remark while she plys her needle or tends the babe. Now and then she stops to comment on the work of her gifted husband whom she loved to address as "my master."

On the next floor was the art school, where pupils were instructed for about sixty-five dollars a year each. There was also the studio where Rembrandt did his own painting of the various sitters who came to him. Hallowed indeed was this room. When the master was painting no one dared interrupt him. The king himself, had he dared enter that inspired presence, must needs wait until the artist had completed his sketch.

Such was the home where Rembrandt and Saskia lived, where he entertained his friends and where he instructed his students. Here he knew the greatest joy that can come to man, and here he experienced the bitterest sorrows. Over its blessed threshold he had carried success and happiness, and from it he had gone a bankrupt and desolate man, bereft of family, friends and art treasures.

He never tired of sketching his Saskia in some new attitude. She leaned upon the table with her smiling face shaded by a broad hat, and she was his youthful bride. Her loaded her with jewels and oriental fabrics and she was 'The Jewish Bride,"  or she sat upon his knee in one of his jocular moods, and it was "Rembrandt and his Wife"  in their dining-room. During all the nine happy years of their life together hers is the face to which he reverts over and over again. She revered her gifted husband, and yet, more worldly-wise than he, she must often have remonstrated with him for spending so freely for the art works which he loved so much, or for mingling so little with men of the outside world, even though it was life itself to her to have him with her in the home. Several children were born to them but all except one, Titus, died in infancy. This sorrow wore upon the beautiful young Saskia, and soon her health became broken. Rembrandt could not realize the sorrow that menaced him, but on it came, relentless as fate.

Through the happy years Rembrandt had been busy indeed with various commissions. Besides the paintings and etchings of himself and Saskia, he had done many notable works. There was "The Shipbuilder and his Wife,"  now in Buckingham Palace. It seems only the handing of a letter to the builder by his wife, and yet in its sweet composure we read the record of a happy, well-spent life with yet more pleasure in it for this united, prosperous pair. There, too, is "The Philosopher in his Cell,"  with its wonderful winding stairs and its masterful light and shade. There is a "Samson's Wedding Feast," "Manoah's Prayer,"  and the fierce but effective so called portrait of the great Russian, "Sobieski."  There were also "The Carpenter's Household,"  before referred to, and that inimitable "Lady with a Fan."

Not one of these but is charming, but, if we seek to explain the charm, it eludes us and will not be analyzed. To nothing can we attribute it so much, I think, as to the master's wonderful power in the use of light and shade. By using transparent shadows and high lights very near together, Rembrandt found the best expression for his own thoughtful nature.

Every town had its own military company, its civic guard, and worthy indeed had been the work they had done in the days of the Spanish oppression. The guard had its guild hall which it took pride in decorating with the portraits of its members. Such pictures were usually paid for by a sort of tax imposed for the purpose on the members. Those of highest title paid most and the others according to their rank. In this way a considerable sum could be paid for a picture, and yet the burden fell heavily on no one individual.

There was another side to it, however. The men who paid even a small sum expected to be prominent in the picture. It is easy to see that when there was a central theme about which everything subordinated itself it was not always possible to give the required attention to each individual. In 1642, the civic guard of Amsterdam wished such a picture, and they commissioned Rembrandt to paint it. He was determined, as always, that his portrait group should be something besides portraits—that there should be some action to unify the whole.

With this in mind, he represented the whole company suddenly called out of their quarters and given the order to march. The captain and his lieutenant march in front with the light strongly concentrated upon them, while the men arm and load as they go. The standard bearer lifts the flag. There is varied movement and our interest in the cause of it all is intense. So precipitate has been the call and the response of these soldiers that people passing along the street have become mixed in the ranks—hence the presence of the children.

One thing should be remembered and that is that the name "Night Watch"  is entirely incorrect for this picture. It was given to the painting after it had hung in the guard hall many years and had become blackened by smoke and dirt. So far from its representing a night scene, the shadow of the captain's hand and arm is plain upon the coat of the lieutenant, and shows the precise position of the sun. It should be called "The Sortie of Banning Cock's Company," which would be plain to everyone, as Banning Cock was the name of the captain. In all copies of the picture which we have, it seems overcrowded, not enough marginal canvas—members of the company cut in two, etc. In making this criticism we must not forget that in 1715 the picture was removed to the town hall and, to make it fit into a given space, it was cut down several inches.

As before mentioned, the picture marked a turning point in the life of the artist. Only a few of the sixteen men who had contributed toward the picture were made prominent enough to please them. The exact meaning of the picture was not evident to all. What did the artist mean by the lighting? How did the witch-like little woman or girl happen to get in among the soldiers? Why were the weapons of the company so varied? There were few, indeed, who were pleased with the picture as a whole. What wonder that the artist became confused in the exuberance of his own thoughts, for his beloved Saskia lay dying! In spite of all these criticisms the picture stands to-day one of the masterpieces of the world, perhaps the chief attraction that draws the traveler to Amsterdam.

Through "The Night Watch"  and the death of Saskia, his double life of artist and home-lover was interrupted. Then followed dark days when patrons came not to the studio, and the lonely hours were filled with longing for "The touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a voice that is still." The artist's work went on, but deeper and sadder subjects engaged his thought. During these years the face of the Savior is very often found among his pictures. One of these, "The Supper at Emmaus,"  ranks high among the master's pictures and among all pictures. There sits the worn Christ, who knows the secrets of the tomb. He makes himself known to his companions. They are awed by the revelation to such an extent that we see their feeling in their extended hands, while the boy who serves them almost drops what he is carrying so excited is he by what he hears. As we study the face of the Christ we feel that he has indeed walked with death.