In 1891, Claus exhibited for the first time in the Champ de Mars, and has contributed each year from that date. His technical skill grows steadily. M. Gabriel Mourey, staunch supporter of “La peinture claire,” contributed a most sympathetic article to the “Studio,” in which he wrote, “In the old days, Claus was accused of being an ‘Impressionist,’ and such he is to a certain degree just as any one may be without disrespect to the glorious traditions of the painter’s art. He is an Impressionist to this extent—that he possesses the gift of _feeling_ with the utmost keenness the true meaning of Nature in all her manifestations; while he is bound by no rule, subject to no formula, in his endeavour to interpret that meaning on his canvas. But, unlike most Impressionists, he has the rare capacity to know how to choose his impressions, to test them to the uttermost, and never to rest until he has translated them to his full satisfaction, disdaining the haphazard attempts which are sufficient for the majority of modern landscapists. Impressionist! One need feel no surprise that the superficial observer dubs him thus; for nowadays every painter whose work is luminous and bright, and devoid of bitumen, earns and deserves the title! The truth is that Claus, without adapting his style to any special method, is mainly concerned that his works shall be as full of atmosphere as possible, that his touch shall be as free and his colour as pure as he can make them. Thus he achieves that remarkable freshness of tint, that brightness of colouring, which constitute one of the chief charms of his art.” The little house near Astene is called in Flemish “Zonnenschyn”—“Sunshine,” and it is indeed sunshine which is predominant in the work of Emile Claus. Le Sidaner is an artist, who, after having passed through several antagonistic stages, has developed a style entirely his own. He may be described as a mystic who views the world with an air of detachment, standing aloof from the distractions of its inhabitants. He prefers an environment breathing some vague and undefined sorrow. The joy of life does not course through his veins. The subjects which appeal most to him suggest renunciation and world-weariness, the solemn peace of a Flemish _béguinage_, a cobbled street in Bruges recalling dead glories, a deserted canal with a solitary swan. When he designs a figure-composition the subject belongs to the same _genre_, a priest administering extreme unction to a dying girl, orphans under the care of a nun, old women waiting with the patience of extreme old age for Death to release them from their suffering senility. He instils into his canvases the very essence of Keats’ line, “Sorrow more beautiful than beauty’s self.”