Blake was a very strange visionary—that he believed that the spirits of the dead appeared to him, and that he took their portraits.
“C’était donc un fou,” remarked the Frenchman.
“Non, Monsieur,” I replied, “he was not a madman. He was almost a genius. Indeed, c’était un Doré manqué” (he was all but a Doré).
There was a roar of laughter from all around, and I, innocently supposing that I had said something clever unawares, laughed too.
After all had departed, and I was smoking alone with Sir Charles, he said—
“Well, what did you think of Doré?”
“Doré!” I replied astonished, “why, I never saw Doré in all my life.”
“That was Doré to whom you were talking,” he answered.
“Ah! well,” was my answer, “then it is all right.”
I suppose that Doré believed that I knew at the time who he was. Had he been aware that I did not know who he was, the compliment would have seemed much stronger.