“Yes! on Snowdon!”
“Did you hear them blast a slate-quarry?”
“Yes. In Wales, and also on Coniston in Lancashire.”
“And did you notice the sound?” I was altogether at fault and said:
“Won’t you tell me—explain to me. I really want to understand?” Accordingly he spoke the last line; and further explanation was unnecessary. The whole gist was in his pronunciation of the word “bluff” twice repeated. He spoke the word with a sort of quick propulsive effort as though throwing the word from his mouth.
“I thought any one would understand that!” he added.
It was the exact muffled sound which the exploding charge makes in the curves of the steep valleys.
This is a good instance of Tennyson’s wonderful power of onomatopœia. To him the sound had a sense of its own. I had another instance of it before the day was over.
That talk was full of very interesting memories. Perhaps it was apropos of the peas grown from the seed in the mummy hand, but Lazarus in his tomb came on the tapis. This stanza of In Memoriam had always been a favourite of mine, and when I told him so, he said:
“Repeat it!” I did so, again feeling as if I were being weighed up. When I had finished: