In short, all good things are wild and free. There is something in a strain of music, whether produced by an instrument or by thehuman voice,–take the sound of a bugle in a summer night, for instance,–which by its wildness, to speak without satire, reminds me of the cries emitted by wild beasts in their native forests. It is so much of their wildness as I can understand. Give me for my friends and neighbors wild men, not tame ones. The wildness of the savage is but a faint symbol of the awful ferity with which good men and lovers meet.
