tters of art, and is worth attention. Of course, a man who made
hundreds of drawings every year could not work much from nature, and
came to rely upon his memory. But what is the nature of artistic
memory, and how does it perform its task? We think the truth is, that
the artist who habitually works from memory, fills in his details, not
from memory of the object, but from memory of the way he has formerly
drawn similar objects. He reverts to a series of formulae that he has
gradually accumulated. This man must have a cloak. This is the way a
cloak is done. A hand? Nothing can be easier; the hand formula is
ready. The stock in trade of the professional illustrator and
caricaturist is made up of a thousand such formulae--methods of
expression that convey the idea readily enough to the spectator, but
have little relation to fact. So it is that Dore never learned, in the
true sense, to draw. He had made for himself a sort of artistic
shorthand, which enabled him to convey his superabundant ideas quickly
and certainly to his public, but his drawing is what is called
mannered in the extreme. It is not representation of nature at all,
but pure formula and chic. He is said to be a master of drapery, but
he never drew a single fold correctly. He is said to show great
knowledge of Gothic architecture, but he never drew well a single
column or finial. In his later years he studied anatomy with great
perseverance, and advocated the necessity of dissection, saying, "Il
faut fourrer la main dedans" (You must stick your hand in it); but the
manner was formed, and he never drew a leg with a bone in it.

With this equipment he illustrated Don Quixote, Dante, the Bible. Is
it strange that he shows no sympathy with the grand simplicity of
Dante, or the subtle humor of Cervantes, and that we can only be
thankful that he never completed his projected illustrations to
Shakespeare? Dore, the illustrator, was fecund beyond precedent,
possessed a certain strange drollery, had a wonderful flow of ideas,
but was superficial, theatrical, and mannered, and as far from
expressing real horror as from expressing real fun. What shall we say
of Dore the painter and sculptor?

Mr. Jerrold reports a discussion between Dore and Theophile Gautier,
in which the roles of artist and man of letters are strangely
reversed. "Gautier and Dore," he says, "disagreed fundamentally on the
aims and methods of art. Gautier loved correctness, perfect form--the
techniqu