e elastic rebound of both. But when the chloral was stoutly met
at last, it was too late.

So at the age of fifty-four we have lost a man whom we should have
retained, in the nature of things, for twenty years longer in the
plentitude of his powers, but for a mistake in hygiene--a medical
experiment. His work of inspiring the young, of projecting his fiery
originality along the veins of others, was perhaps completed; it is
doubtful whether this can ever be continued with advantage through
more than two generations. The prophet is apt at last to become a
tyrant, and from this ill apotheosis Rossetti was spared. But there
was no reason why he should not, for at least a score of years, have
produced noble pictures and have written gorgeous poems, emphasizing a
personal success which he would have extended, though he hardly could
have raised it. Yet he was always a melancholy man; of late years he
had become almost a solitary man. Like Charles of Austria, he had
disbanded his body-guard, and had retired to the cloister. Perhaps a
longer life would not have brought much enjoyment with it. But these
are idle speculations, and we have rather to call to our remembrance
the fact that one of the brightest and most distinguished of our race,
a man whose very existence was a protest against narrowness of aim and
feebleness of purpose, one of the great torch-bearers in the
procession of English art, has been called from us in the prime of
life, before the full significance of his genius had been properly
felt. He was the contemporary of some mighty names older than his, yet
there scarcely was to be found among them all a spirit more thoroughly
original; and surely, when the paltry conflicts of passing taste are
laid to rest forever, it will be found that this man has written his
signature indelibly on one of the principal pages of the register of
our intellectual history.

[Signature of the author.]

GUSTAVE DORE[11]

[Footnote 11: Reprinted by permission, from the "Nation."]

By KENYON COX

(1832-1883)

[Illustration: Gustave Dore.]

It is now eleven years since Gustave Dore died. He was an officer of
the Legion of Honor, had attained considerable wealth, and was
probably more widely known than any other artist of his day. His name
was a household word in two continents. Yet he died a disappointed and
embittered man, and is proclaimed by his friends as a neglected and
misunderstood genius. He was known t