But, although details and their combinations in the human face and form cannot be wrought from the imagination, the truthfulness or falsity of their representation is instantly evident.  It is because of this, that the unity of a portrait carries conviction of its truth and of the unimpeachability of its evidence, that this phase of art becomes so valuable as history.  Compared with the worth of Titian’s Philip II.,—­the Madrid picture, of which Mr. Wild has an admirable study,—­what value can be attached to any historical composition of its period?

It has not been the lot of Mr. Page to paint a mighty man, so inlocked with the rugged forces of his age.  His sitters have come from more peaceful, nobler walks of life,—­and their portraits are beloved even more than they are admired.  Not yet are they the pride of pompous galleries, but the glory and saintliness of homes.

Could we enter these homes, and discuss freely the character of their treasures, we would gladly linger in the presence of the more precious.  But so inseparably associated are they with their originals, so much more nearly related to them than to the artist, that no fitting analysis can be made of the representation without involving that of the individual represented.

Three portraits have, however, such wonderful excellence, and through this excellence have become so well known, that we may be forgiven for alluding to them.  In a former paper, the writer spoke of the portrait of a man in his divinest development.  The first of these three works is the representation of a woman, and is truly “somewhat miraculous.”  It is a face rendered impressive by the grandest repose,—­a repose that pervades the room and the soul,—­a repose not to be mistaken for serenity, but which is power in equilibrium.  No brilliancy of color, no elaboration of accessories, no intricacy of composition attracts the attention of the observer.  There is no need of these.  But he who is worthy of the privilege stands suddenly conscious of a presence such as the world has rarely known.  He feels that the embodiment before him is the record of a great Past, as well as the reflection of a proud Present,—­a Past in which the soul has ever borne on through and above all obstacles of discouragement and temptation to a success which was its inheritance.  He sees, too, the possibilities of the near Future; how from that fine equipoise the soul might pass out into rare manifestations, appearing in the sweetness and simplicity of a little child, in the fearful tumultuousness of a Lady Macbeth, in the passionate tenderness of a Romeo, or in the Gothic grandeur of a Scotch sorceress,—­in the love of kindred, in the fervor of friendship, and in the nobleness of the truest womanhood.