standing sacrifice. The artist, painter, poet, or
musician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful, satisfies
the aesthetic sense; but that is akin to the sexual instinct,
and shares its barbarity: he lays before you also the greater
gift of himself. To pursue his secret has something of the
fascination of a detective story. It is a riddle which shares
with the universe the merit of having no answer. The most
insignificant of Strickland's works suggests a personality
which is strange, tormented, and complex; and it is this
surely which prevents even those who do not like his pictures
from being indifferent to them; it is this which has excited
so curious an interest in his life and character.

It was not till four years after Strickland's death that
Maurice Huret wrote that article in the <i Mercure de France>
which rescued the unknown painter from oblivion and blazed the
trail which succeeding writers, with more or less docility,
have followed. For a long time no critic has enjoyed in
France a more incontestable authority, and it was impossible
not to be impressed by the claims he made; they seemed
extravagant; but later judgments have confirmed his estimate,
and the reputation of Charles Strickland is now firmly
established on the lines which he laid down. The rise of this
reputation is one of the most romantic incidents in the
history of art. But I do not propose to deal with Charles
Strickland's work except in so far as it touches upon
his character. I cannot agree with the painters who claim
superciliously that the layman can understand nothing of
painting, and that he can best show his appreciation of their
works by silence and a cheque-book. It is a grotesque
misapprehension which sees in art no more than a craft
comprehensible perfectly only to the craftsman: art is a
manifestation of emotion, and emotion speaks a language that
all may understand. But I will allow that the critic who has
not a practical knowledge of technique is seldom able to say
anything on the subject of real value, and my ignorance of
painting is extreme. Fortunately, there is no need for me to
risk the adventure, since my friend, Mr. Edward Leggatt, an
able writer as well as an admirable painter, has exhaustively
discussed Charles Strickland's work in a little book[1] which
is a charming example of a style, for the most part, less
happily cultivated in England than in France.

[1] "A Modern Artist: Notes on the Work o