put a good deal of himself into this strange hero. The adoration of
beauty, which is the lodestar of the poet, lifted Dauber into a
different world from the life of the ship. He had an ungovernable
desire to paint the constantly changing phases of beauty in the action
of the vessel and in the wonders of the sea and sky. In this passion
his shy, sensitive nature was stronger than all the brute strength
enjoyed by his shipmates; they could destroy his paintings, they could
hurt his body, they could torture his heart. But they could not
prevent him from following his ideal. Dauber died, and his pictures
are lost. But in the poem describing his aims and his sufferings, Mr.
Masefield has accomplished with his pen what Dauber failed to do with
his brush; the beauty of the ship, the beauty of dawn and of midnight,
the majesty of the storm are revealed to us in a series of
unforgettable pictures. And one of Edison's ambitions is here
realized. At the same moment we _see_ the frightful white-capped
ocean mountains, and we _hear_ the roar of the gale.

Water and sky were devils' brews which boiled,
Boiled, shrieked, and glowered; but the ship was saved.
Snugged safely down, though fourteen sails were split.
Out of the dark a fiercer fury raved.
The grey-backs died and mounted, each crest lit
With a white toppling gleam that hissed from it
And slid, or leaped, or ran with whirls of cloud,
Mad with inhuman life that shrieked aloud.

Mr. Masefield is a better poet than critic. In the New York
_Tribune_ for 23 January 1916, he spoke with modesty and candour
of his own work and his own aims, and no one can read what he said
without an increased admiration for him. But it is difficult to