178 THE JOURNEYMAN. 



rock where, as tradition informs us, the naked, grey- 

 bearded man, a few nights before a shipwreck, seats 

 himself and looks mournfully on the sea. Shakespeare 

 says something very severe of the man who does not 

 love music, my ear is wretchedly dull, but as there are 

 three kinds of music which have the power of raising 

 my passions, I hope I am not obnoxious to his ana- 

 thema. The first of these is the rolling of artillery, 

 especially when the sound, prolonged by echo, returns 

 upon the ear three or four times, each time fainter and 

 more hollow. The second is the pealing of thunder. 

 This is the most sublime of all sounds. I never hear 

 it without feeling that, though a little and weak creature, 

 I am not meaner nor more inconsiderable, when laid in 

 the balance with Him whose voice is then lifted up, than 

 are the mighty ones of the earth, who, in their rage, their 

 sport, or to make themselves a name, desolate kingdoms 

 or raise pyramids. The third is that combination of 

 wild sounds which, in a tempest, pleases yet stuns the 

 ear. In the Dropping Cave, like a solitary Triton 

 divested of his shell, I was listening to such a concert 

 a concert of the elements ; and my mind, as if sym- 

 pathizing with the winds and waves, was overcast by a 

 mist of wild thoughts, which arose and passed away even 

 as did the grey clouds which at that time hurried over 

 the face of the heavens. I sung verses of war-songs. I 

 repeated or rather shouted out pieces of poetry descriptive 

 of battles or tempests, or turning to the recesses of the 

 cavern, I challenged the spectre by which it is haunted 

 to come forward that we might hold converse together. 

 You see how well your friend can act the madman when 

 under the guidance of imagination, yet, volatile as my 

 mind is, I do not envy the gravity of the men over 

 whose judgments fancy never triumphs. 3 



