The excruciating voice, that was so 'intolerably shrill, harsh, and discordant' to the north-countryman's sensitive ear at the opening of his acquaintance with this eccentric and delightfully unconventional undergraduate, became less disagreeable, even in its sharpest notes, to the critical auditor as it grew more familiar. Moreover, the voice was not always at torture-pitch. It was only when he was under excitement that the youngster afflicted his hearers by 'speaking' (to use Peacock's description of the poet's vocal peculiarity) 'in sharp fourths, the most unpleasing sequence of sound that can fall on the human ear.' When he spoke calmly, the voice was not otherwise than agreeable; when he read poetry that delighted him, the voice became musical, 'was good' (says Peacock) 'both in tune and in tone; was low and soft, but clear, distinct, and expressive.' Hogg had not known his young friend many days without discovering that the voice could be no less melodious and charming than harsh and screeching. In these vocal characteristics, as in so many other matters, Shelley resembled Byron, who used to shriek and scream in his frequent paroxysms of hysterical rage, and yet had a voice sweeter even than his verse, when he gossiped contentedly with women, and prattled lovingly with little children. It is not wonderful that the self-sufficient, critical, humorous Hogg's interest in his young friend was composed equally of amusement and admiration, cynical curiosity and amiable contempt; a disposition to love him, and an even stronger disposition to laugh at him. There was so much to admire and love in the eccentric boy, who overflowed with pity for the miseries of mankind, and prattled with almost childish communicativeness about his cousin Harriett's beauty and his sister Elizabeth's perfections; so much that was inexpressibly ludicrous in the youthful chemist and scientific enthusiast who, believing in the 'Elixir Vitæ,' was at the same time an astronomer and astrologer--in the sceptical philosopher who, equally credulous and incredulous, spoke no less reverentially of dreams than irreverentially of the Scriptural miracles, could embrace any fable provided it were not one of 'the delusions' of Christianity, and had no doubt he ought to believe in ghosts, whilst deeming it questionable whether he ought to believe in God. Under Hogg's tuition this last question was erased from the list of Shelley's moot points. Having repudiated Christ at Eton, the freshman had not entered on his second term of residence at Oxford without finding himself under 'the necessity' of repudiating God; and, though he would probably have come to this conclusion by himself somewhat later in his career, it is certain he came to it the sooner for Hogg's assistance and encouragement.