With his disinterested passion for art, he had a real desire to call the attention of the wise to a talent which was in the highest degree original but he was too good a journalist to be unaware that the “human interest” would enable him more easily to effect his purpose. Maurice Huret in his famous article gave an outline of Charles Strickland's life which was well calculated to whet the appetites of the inquiring. “A Modern Artist: Notes on the Work of Charles Strickland,” by Edward Leggatt, A. Edward Leggatt, an able writer as well as an admirable painter, has exhaustively discussed Charles Strickland's work in a little book which is a charming example of a style, for the most part, less happily cultivated in England than in France. Fortunately, there is no need for me to risk the adventure, since my friend, Mr. 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. 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. 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. But I do not propose to deal with Charles Strickland's work except in so far as it touches upon his character. The rise of this reputation is one of the most romantic incidents in the history of art. 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. It was not till four years after Strickland's death that Maurice Huret wrote that article in the which rescued the unknown painter from oblivion and blazed the trail which succeeding writers, with more or less docility, have followed. 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 is a riddle which shares with the universe the merit of having no answer. To pursue his secret has something of the fascination of a detective story. 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. I suppose Velasquez was a better painter than El Greco, but custom stales one's admiration for him: the Cretan, sensual and tragic, proffers the mystery of his soul like a standing sacrifice. To my mind the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist and if that is singular, I am willing to excuse a thousand faults. It is still possible to discuss his place in art, and the adulation of his admirers is perhaps no less capricious than the disparagement of his detractors but one thing can never be doubtful, and that is that he had genius. His faults are accepted as the necessary complement to his merits. The time has passed when he was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer a mark of eccentricity to defend or of perversity to extol him. It may be that you do not like his art, but at all events you can hardly refuse it the tribute of your interest. The greatness of Charles Strickland was authentic. The Prime Minister out of office is seen, too often, to have been but a pompous rhetorician, and the General without an army is but the tame hero of a market town. I do not speak of that greatness which is achieved by the fortunate politician or the successful soldier that is a quality which belongs to the place he occupies rather than to the man and a change of circumstances reduces it to very discreet proportions. Yet now few will be found to deny his greatness. I confess that when first I made acquaintance with Charles Strickland I never for a moment discerned that there was in him anything out of the ordinary.
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