eiled. It is by Watts, and represents the poet clad
in a cape overcoat, with slouch hat in hand and his dog at his side.
He and his dumb friend have been strolling in the woods and his head
is bent over an uprooted flower held lovingly in his hand. Underneath
are the lines which inspired the striking pose:

"Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand.
Little flower--but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is."

It is a beautiful conception, the big, tall man contemplating thus
reverently, with bared head, the tender epitome of life. The dog, with
head upraised, points a comprehending nose in the direction of his
poet-master's find, and looks as if he longed to help him unravel the
mystery. MacDowell would adore this piece of sculpture, for he sought
the secret of life in flower and brook and landscape, in mountain and
vale and sea.

Gilman compares the "Sea Pieces" to Walt Whitman and Swinburne. Like
Whitman, MacDowell is no strict adherent to set forms, placing
inspiration ahead of tradition. Some of his most beautiful
compositions are very brief. Poe claims that there is no such thing in
existence as a "long poem." Since a poem only deserves the name in
proportion to its power to excite and elevate the soul, and a
sustained condition of soul excitement and elevation is a psychic
impossibility, the oft-used phrase is a contradiction in terms.
Applying this idea to the familiar piano compositions of MacDowell,
they have every right to be called "tone poems." Poetry is the
color-work of the mind, as distinguished from its sculpture and
architecture, which represent mere form. There is more than form in
the compositions under consideration; the tinge of color is
everywhere, the wave of poetry that produces soul excitement and
elevation, from signature to final chord. While he handles a subject
broadly, as an impressionist, accomplishing striking effects with a
few bold, characteristic strokes, MacDowell still works out his tone
picture with considerable detail, carefully indicating the results he
wishes to achieve. He reminds one in his methods of Corot, the great
landscape painter. He will tell you to play a passage "very tenderly,"
or "somewhat savagely," or "daintily and joyously," not being content
with the usual color terms. When he is loud, he is very, very loud,
and in the same