Word: daubers
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Reynard the Fox has been given the Laureate's Chair by the King; Dauber has left the salt sea for the National Muse; King Cole has been given a throne...
...much one of honor as a lease upon his genius, and should it deprive us of the vigorous Masefield, and give us a patriotic poet in his place, the loss would be greater than the world can afford. Let Reynard the Fox still run in the forest, and Dauber, occasionally at least, set out to sea again...
...museum is typical of the logical French mind. Praises of living artists are forever reverberating in the cafes and studios of France. But these hallelujahs, often fanatical in intensity, are usually ignored by bland, potent French critics. These priests of the Louvre are too wise to ballyhoo any skyrocketing dauber who happens to be the vogue. But occasionally the critical pundits suspect a novice of immortality. When this happens they have a routine gesture of generosity. They hang his pictures in the Luxembourg. For a minimum of ten years the pictures generally stay there. Thousands see them, thousands talk about...
...they envied, even then, his popularity. Sir Joshua in his later period (he was eight years older than Romney) would not speak of him by name. He said, "The Man in Cavendish Square. . . ." Romney never retaliated by branding Reynolds as "The Man in St. Martin's Lane," "The Dauber in Great Newport Street," or "The Lump in Leicester Square," although the latter made residence, at one time or another, in all these thoroughfares. Romney never retaliated at all, for, to the end of his life, Reynolds frightened him. In the first place, Romney had been born behind the vulgar...
...golden of hue and often go nearly naked. There are some 400 pages of highly involved events, followed by much sacking and a fierce conflagration, and the hero sails away having accomplished nothing more than the reader's unmitigated excitement. Author Masefield, famed and beloved as the poet of Dauber, Reynard the Fox, etc., does not, one hopes, take his novel writing as anything but an exuberant indulgence with, one also hopes, some lucrative return. There is nothing in this or in his first prose extravaganza, Sard Harker, to show that the Sage of Boar's Hill knows anything about...