t is the work that
formed him and fixed his characteristics, and an understanding of it
is essential to any judgment of him. The qualities and the defects of
his later work--that which is most praised and most blamed in his
production--are inherent in the work of this period, and are best
explained by a reference to the latter.

Take, for instance, what has been denounced as his love of horrors and
of foulness, his delight in blood and massacre. He is scored for this
as if he were one of that modern French school, beginning, perhaps,
with Regnault, who have revelled in the realistic presentation of
executions and battles, and have sought to effect by sheer
sensationalism what they could not by gentler means. It is surprising
that his critics have not seen that Dore's battles are always, even to
the end, the battles of a caricaturist. His decapitated trunks, cloven
heads, smoking hearts, arms still fighting though severed from their
bodies, are simply a debauch of grim humor. There is never the
slightest attempt to realize carnage--only to convey, by the
caricaturist's exaggeration, an idea of colossally impossible
bloodthirstiness. One may not enjoy this kind of fun, but to take it
seriously, as the emanation of a gloomy and diabolic genius, is
absurd.

The same test is equally destructive of much of the praise Dore has
received. He is constantly spoken of, even by severe critics of his
painting, as a great illustrator who identified himself with the minds
of one great writer after another. But Dore identified himself with no
one; he was always Dore. Even in these early drawings he cannot keep
to the spirit of the text, though the subjects suited him much better
than many he tried later. There is a great deal of broad gayety and
"Gallic wit" in the "Contes Drolatiques," but it was not broad enough
for Dore, and he has converted its most human characters into
impossible grotesques.

Another thing for which Dore is praised is his wonderful memory. Mr.
Jerrold repeats more than once Dore's phrase, "I have lots of
collodion in my head," and recounts how he could scarcely be induced
to make sketches from nature, but relied upon his memory. He also
speaks of Dore's system of dividing and subdividing a subject, and
noting the details in their places, so that he could reproduce the
whole afterward. This question of work from memory is one of the most
vital for an understanding of Dore, and one of general interest in all
ma