Yet outside this solitary faculty or inspiration there was nothing noteworthy about the creature but his gloom; and even that might have been no more than the shadow cast by the brighter half of his dual personality on the other. Born musicians are not as a rule remarkable for their intellectual brilliancy, and Sad Jack was, I am afraid, no exception to the rule. He was a dull fellow, in truth, in all that did not appertain to his exquisite art. Now, it so happened that Fortune one bright spring morning directed the wandering harpist’s footsteps towards that quarter of the town which has already been mentioned, when, attracted perhaps by the sunny quiet of the spot, or by some suggestion in it of acoustic possibilities, he turned into Duke Street, and, choosing a convenient place, unslung his harp and stool, and stood for some moments glassily appraising the constitution of the little throng which had followed him into that retreat. He was inured by now to open-air criticism, and easily master of its moods. He could afford to tantalize expectation, sure of his ability to win the heart out of any crowd at the first touch of those long, nervous fingers of his which for the moment caressed his chin reflective, and with no more apparent sensibility in them than the fingers of a farmer calculating the profits on a flock of sheep. And, indeed, these were sheep, in their curiosity, in their shyness of the challenging human eye, in the way in which each refused to be thrust forward of his fellows, lest his prominent position should argue his readiness to be fleeced. But they all gaped and hung aloof, while the musician, anticipating their sure subjection, leisurely keyed up his strings to the concordant pitch; when at last, satisfied and in the humour, he began to play. Then it was curious to note the hush which instantly fell upon the throng. Sure, of all the instruments of the senses--ear, eye, palate, nose, and finger--there is none so subtle in its mechanism as the first, nor so defiant of analysis in the way it transmits its message to the soul. The nature to which taste and vision and smell and touch may never prove holier than carnal provocations will yet find its divinity in music. Sound, perhaps, built the universe, as Amphion with his lyre built the walls of Thebes. Children of light, we may be children of sound also, if only we knew. Now the kennel-sweeper leaned upon his broom, and dreamed of starry tracks where no rain ever fell; the cadger hated himself no longer; the little climbing-boy sat on the rim of the tallest chimney in all the world; the pretty sempstress hid with a little hand the furtive patch upon her chin, and flushed to know it there; the hackney coachman pulled on his rein and sat to listen, a piece of straw stuck motionless between his teeth. One and all they dwelt like spirits intoxicated, hearing of a new message and drunk with some wonderful joy of release. And then the sweet strains ended and they came to earth.