"Well, if yer knows Yorkshire, yer knows there's plenty of music up
there. They can tell music, when they hear it, in Yorkshire, _that_ they
can! But these caownties down here, why, the people knows no more about
music nor pigs. They can't tell the difference between a man what really
_can_ sing and one of these 'ere 'owlin' 'umbugs that goes draggin'
little children up and daown t' streets. That sort makes more money than
we does. And I tell you, him 'ere"--indicating Banquo--"is a good cornet
player. 'Ere, Banquo, fetch it out o' your pocket, lad, and play the
gentleman a toon."
As far as I could judge, Banquo's pocket was situated somewhere in the
middle of his back, for it was from a region in that quarter, where I
had already felt a hard excrescence, due as I might have thought to an
unextracted cannon-ball received in South Africa, that the cornet was
produced.
"Play the gentleman 'The Merry Widder,'" said Macbeth, "and wait till
the thunder's stopped rolling before you begin."
The "Merry Widder" was well and duly played, and fully bore out
Macbeth's eulogy of the player. It was followed by something from
_Maritana_, and other things which I forget. Though the mouth of the
trumpet was only a few inches from the drum of my ear, yet the din of
the rain on the roof was such that the effect was not unpleasant--at all
events, it was a welcome relief from the frightful strains on the
olfactory organ. The man, I say, was a good player, and I remember
wishing, as I listened to him, that there was anything in life that I
could do half as well.
As he finished one of his selections, the gloom deepened, it became
almost as dark as night, the rain ceased for a moment, and there was
silence; and then there shot in upon us a blast of fire and a bolt of
thunder, so near and so overwhelming that I verily believe it was a
narrow escape from death.
"That's something to put the fear of God into a man," said Macbeth, as
the volley rolled into distance. "My crikey! But I've heard say, mister,
that the thunder is the voice of the wrath of God."
"I'm sure it is," I replied.
"Sounds like it anyhow. I wonder if that there chap with the cart has
got the young woman under cover. She'll be scared out of her life. Eh,
but isn't it dark? It might be half-past ten. Here, matey"--to
Banquo--"let's have something in keepin' loike. Give us 'Lead, Kindly
Light,' lad, on t' cornet, and I'll sing the bass. I want t' gentleman
to hear my voice."
The hymn was sung in a voice as good as some that have made great
fortunes, but with a depth of emotion which occasionally spoilt the
notes; and I can say little more than that the singing, in that strange
setting, with muttering thunder for an undertone, was a thing I shall
not forget.
"Do you know anything about that hymn?" said Macbeth (the tears made
watercourses down his dirty face) when it was over.
"Yes," I said, "a little."
"But I know _all_ about it," replied Macbeth. "Him as wrote that hymn
was Cardinal Newman. They say he wrote it at sea, maybe he wrote it in a
storm--like this. He was a Protestant, and was just turning into a
Catholic. Didn't know whether he would or whether he wouldn't, loike.
That's what he means when he says, 'Lead, Kindly Light.' He was i' th'
dark, and wanted lightin'. It was _all_ dark, don't you see, just loike
it is naow."
Some minutes elapsed, during which neither Banquo nor I said a word. I
stole a glance at the "'ole under his eye," and saw that it was no
laughing matter to "get a sock in the face from a shell." The human
profile, on that side, had virtually disappeared; jaw and cheek-bone
were smashed in; there was neither nostril nor ear; the lower eyelid was
missing; the eye itself was evidently sightless, and a constant trickle
of tears ran down into the hideous scar below.
I thought of this man wandering over the earth, abhorred of all
beholders; I thought of the music he managed to make with the remnant of
his mutilated face; I thought also of the rigour of Destiny and the
kindliness of Death. I remember the words running in my head, "He hath
no form nor comeliness. Yet he was wounded for our transgressions, and
the chastisement of our peace was upon him."
I averted my glance, but not before Banquo had discovered that I was
looking at him. "Ha," he said; "you're lookin' at my face. It's a
beauty, isn't it? They ought to put it on the board outside the
recruitin' stations, as a sort of inducement to good-lookin' young men.
Help to make the Army popular wi' the young women, don't you see?
'George, why don't you join the Army and get a face like that? You'd be
worth lookin' at then.' Can't you hear 'em saying it? Oh, yes, I'm proud
o' my face, _that_ I am! So's my old gal. That's why she left me and the
kids the day I come home--never seen her since. Every time I draws my
pension I says to myself, 'Bill, my lad, that face o' yours is cheap at
the price. Keep up your pecker, my hearty; you'll make yer fortune when
Mr. Barnum sees yer! It's a bloomin' good investment, that's what I
calls it. Give yer a sort o' start in life. Makes folks glad to see yer
when you drops in to tea. And then I'm always feelin' as though I wanted
to have my photograph taken--and that's nice, too. So you see takin' it
all round, it's quite a blessin' to have a face like mine."