This master of the fine art was a personage and nothing more; but, as I have said, there was an infinite diversity of temperament amongst the masters of the fine art I have known.  Some were great impressionists.  They impressed upon you the fear of God and Immensity—­or, in other words, the fear of being drowned with every circumstance of terrific grandeur.  One may think that the locality of your passing away by means of suffocation in water does not really matter very much.  I am not so sure of that.  I am, perhaps, unduly sensitive, but I confess that the idea of being suddenly spilt into an infuriated ocean in the midst of darkness and uproar affected me always with a sensation of shrinking distaste.  To be drowned in a pond, though it might be called an ignominious fate by the ignorant, is yet a bright and peaceful ending in comparison with some other endings to one’s earthly career which I have mentally quaked at in the intervals or even in the midst of violent exertions.

But let that pass.  Some of the masters whose influence left a trace upon my character to this very day, combined a fierceness of conception with a certitude of execution upon the basis of just appreciation of means and ends which is the highest quality of the man of action.  And an artist is a man of action, whether he creates a personality, invents an expedient, or finds the issue of a complicated situation.

There were masters, too, I have known, whose very art consisted in avoiding every conceivable situation.  It is needless to say that they never did great things in their craft; but they were not to be despised for that.  They were modest; they understood their limitations.  Their own masters had not handed the sacred fire into the keeping of their cold and skilful hands.  One of those last I remember specially, now gone to his rest from that sea which his temperament must have made a scene of little more than a peaceful pursuit.  Once only did he attempt a stroke of audacity, one early morning, with a steady breeze, entering a crowded roadstead.  But he was not genuine in this display which might have been art.  He was thinking of his own self; he hankered after the meretricious glory of a showy performance.

As, rounding a dark, wooded point, bathed in fresh air and sunshine, we opened to view a crowd of shipping at anchor lying half a mile ahead of us perhaps, he called me aft from my station on the forecastle head, and, turning over and over his binoculars in his brown hands, said:  “Do you see that big, heavy ship with white lower masts?  I am going to take up a berth between her and the shore.  Now do you see to it that the men jump smartly at the first order.”