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play of the brush as with Rubens, but a method which at first sight recalls the niggling of an amateur. In what then does the supreme merit of Rousseau's picture consist? The answer may be given in a simple word. Its merit lies in its sincerity. When looking at the picture we are overwhelmed by the feeling that the place Rousseau has painted looked just so, that the funny little chimneys, the awkward trees, the scanty bushed, could we but go to Becquigny, are all to be found there, and that could we chose a day such as that on which the artist saw it, the place itself would hardly be more real than the picture. By throwing to the wind all conventional graces of composition and technique, Rousseau has caught the exact spirit of the scene, has recreated for us this homely French village, and has conveyed to us exactly the sensation

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