sank, a golden ball, behind the hills of Barbizon. He wished to show the
picture to some one--to tell some one, and looking around saw only a
cottage on the edge of the wood a quarter of a mile away, and thither he
ran, crying to the astonished farmer, "I've got it! I've got it!"

When Dore did a particularly good piece of work, in the first
intoxication of joy he would run home, kiss his mother on both cheeks,
and picking her up in his strong arms run with her about the rooms.

At other times he would play leap-frog over the chairs, vault over the
piano, and jump across the table. And this wild joy that comes after work
well done he knew for many years. In the evening, after a particularly
good day, he would play the violin and sing entire scenes from some
opera, his mother turning the leaves.

As to his skill as a musician, is this testimonial on the back of a fine
photograph I once had the pleasure of handling: "As a souvenir of tender
friendship, presented to Gustave Dore, who joins with his genius as a
painter the talents of a distinguished violinist and charming tenor.--G.
Rossini."

The illustrations for Dante's "Inferno" were done in Dore's twenty-second
year, and for this work he was decorated with the Cross of the Legion of
Honor. He never did better work, and at this time his hand and brain
seemed at their best.

Every great writer and every great artist makes vigorous use of his
childhood impressions. Childhood does not know it is storing up for the
days to come, but its memories sink deep into the soul, and when called
upon to express, the man reaches out and prints from the plates that are