Paul Veronese, the splendor of whose conceptions seemed ever to select the pomp and wealth of banquets and ceremonies,—­Giorgione, for whom the world revolved in an atmosphere of golden glory,—­each had a fixed ideal of noble coloring; and it is questionable whether either ever modified that ideal for the sake of any expressional purpose.

Titian, from whom no property or capability of color was concealed, could not forego the power which he secured through obedience to the law of its relation to the human soul.  Were we asked which among pictures is most completely illustrative of this obedience, we should answer, “The Entombment,” in the Louvre.  Each breadth of color mourns,—­sky and earth and all the conscious air are laden with sorrow.

In portraiture, however, the great master was inclined to give the full perfection of the highest type of coloring.  That rich glow which is bestowed by the Venetian sun did, indeed, seem typical of the life beneath it; and Titian may have been justified in bringing thither those who were the recipients of his favors.  One only did he not invite,—­Philip II.; him he placed, dark and ominous, against a sky barred with blood.

Is it in virtue of conformity to law, and under the government of the principles of correspondence, that Mr. Page has wrought with mind and hand?

Otherwise it cannot be; for, in the three portraits to which allusion has been made, such subtile distinctions of character find expression in equally subtile differences of tint, that no touch could have been given from vague apprehensions of truth.  No ambiguity perplexes the spectator; he beholds the inevitable.

Other works than those of portraiture have won for Mr. Page the attention of the world.  This attention has elicited from individuals praise and dispraise, dealt out promptly, and with little qualification.  But we have looked in vain for some truly appreciative notice of the so-called historical pictures executed by this artist.  We do not object to the prompt out-speaking of the public.  So much is disposed of, when the mass has given or withheld its approval.  We know whether or not the work appeals to the hearts of human beings.  Often, too, it is the most nearly just of any which may be rendered.  Usually, the conclusions of the great world are correct, while its reasonings are absurd.  Its decisions are immediate and clear; its arguments, subsequent and vague.

This measure, however, cannot be meted to all artists.  A painter may appeal to some wide, yet superficial sympathy, and attain to no other excellence.

That Mr. Page might have found success in this direction will not be denied by any one who has seen the engraving of a girl and lamb, from one of his early works.  It is as sweet and tenderly simple as a face by Francia.  But not only did he refuse to confine himself to this style of art, as, when that engraving is before us, we wish he had done,—­he passed out of and away from it.  And those phases which followed have been such as are the least fitted to stand the trial of public exhibition.  His pictures do not command the eye by extraordinary combinations of assertive colors,—­nor do they, through great pathos, deep tenderness, or any overcharged emotional quality, fascinate and absorb the spectator.