Running north from Storey’s Gate, the backs of its western houses
abutting on the network of conduits which fed what is now in St.
James’s Park called the Ornamental Water, but which was then “The
Canal,” was a short road, or row, named Duke Street, in which was
situated the building--subsequently the town home of Jeffreys, the
filthy Fouquier Tinville of an earlier revolution--known as the
Admiralty House. This mansion--or part of it, for the whole of it was
of considerable dimensions--was, in fact, the headquarters of the
recently reorganized Navy, and as such is mentioned here as being
associated, however indirectly, with our narrative, inasmuch as it was
to a member of its staff (a Mr. Samuel Pepys, not then long nominated
to a clerkship of the acts) that Jack Bannister, the famous harpist,
and a figure with whom we have hereafter to reckon, owed his
“discovery,” in the exclusive as apart from the popular sense.
This man, sprung into evidence no one knew whence or when, had for
months been perambulating the town as an itinerant musician, earning a
precarious livelihood by playing before tavern doors, at street
corners, and in marketplaces, and rich only in the soulful tribute of
the many-headed, to whom he had come to be known by the appellation of
“Sad Jack.” For sad, indeed, he appeared, both in face and habit; a
lean, stoop-shouldered fellow, grimly austere, and always clothed in
grey--grey hose, grey breeches, grey doublet, and grey hat, from the
shadow of whose limp wide brim his eyes shone white, like pebbles
gleaming through dark water. His figure was familiar to the streets
as, his instrument strapped to his back, a folding-stool hung over his
arm, and his soul patiently subdued to the philosophy which could find
in unrecognition the surest proof of worth, he plodded his fortuitous
way, with eye grown selective in the matter of “pitches,” and at his
heels, perhaps, a string of ragamuffins, who, for the merest dole of
his magnificence’s quality, would be ready to walk in his shadow to
the town’s end. For sweet music hath through all the ages the “force”
we wot of to “tame the furious beast,” and there was never a Pied
Piper of genius but could count on his audience of rats to follow him
over half the world if he pleased.
And this man had genius, for all it went unrecognized; but that was
accident, and no moral whatever attaches to the fact. He communicated
it from his finger-tips to the strings, hypostatically as it were,
bestowing on them that gift of tongues which, speaking one language,
speaks all. To his own ears it might appear that he was uttering no
more than his native accents; to all others, gentile and barbarian, it
seemed that he spoke in theirs. And that it is to command genius, the
universal appeal, the gift of the Holy Ghost.
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.
“It was like heaven,” said the sempstress, wiping a tear from the
corner of her eye with her apron.
“Was it, indeed?” said a full-bodied, good-humoured-looking gentleman,
who had paused on his way to his official duties to listen, and who
now pushed himself forward with an easy condescension. This was Mr.
Pepys himself, no less, who, brought to a stop between sense and
sensibility, had discovered no choice but to fall slave to those
transports with which emotional music always filled him. Yet,
astounded as he was by the performance, his eye--a pretty shrewd and
noticing one--had been no less observant than his ear. He wrinkled it
quizzically at the little beauty. “Was it?” says he. “Well, faith,
pretty angel, you ought to know.”
He was very handsomely dressed in a blue jackanapes coat, then come
into fashion, with silver buttons, a pair of fine white stockings, and
a white plume in his hat; and he appeared if anything a little
conscious of his finery. But whether it was from his assurance, which
seemed unjustified of any exceptional good looks, or the thickness of
his calves, which were stupendous, he failed to impress the
sempstress, who, heaving a petulant shoulder at him, with a “La, sir,
I know I am no angel!” tripped about and away, her nose in the air.
Mr. Pepys chuckled into his chin (though no more than twenty-eight, he
possessed already an affluently double one), and, looking a moment
after the retreating figure, turned to the musician, who all this
while had been gazing into vacancy, his hat, placed crown downwards on
the stones, his sole petitioner. But, before any could respond to that
mute invitation, the new-comer had stooped to snatch up the
dishonoured headgear, which he presented with a great bow to its
owner.
“’Tis the privilege of kings, sir,” said he, “to go bonneted before
their subjects. Prithee put this to a nobler use than a beggar’s bowl.
’Tis we that should doff to the prince of harpists,” and he suited the
action to the word, standing bareheaded before the musician.
He, for his part, sat staring, doubtful whether he was honoured or
derided.
“Sir,” he stammered, “have I not played to your liking?”
“So much so,” answered Pepys, “that my liking is you play no more on
the streets. Will you be sensible, sir, and discuss this business? I
can introduce you where your talent will receive justice; and I ask no
other reward for my pains, which is indeed a duty. Sir, I confess your
playing ravished me beyond anything I have heard. Rise, if you will,
and walk with me.”
Looking dumbfoundered, the musician obeyed. He appeared on closer
acquaintance a much younger man than the other had suspected, which
was all in his favour as a prodigy. The offer, nevertheless, had been
a quite disinterested one--a point to the fine gentleman’s credit; for
in truth he was not above expecting commissions on occasion. But in
the question of music he was always at his most altruistic. Now he
conducted his discovery into the court of the Admiralty House, the
better to shake off the throng which followed, and there put to him
the few inquiries which came uppermost in his mind--as to the
stranger’s genesis, to wit, his social standing, his calling, the
circumstances which had thrown him, thus gifted and unpatronized, upon
London streets, and so on. But he learned little to satisfy his
curiosity. The man was reticent, awkward of speech, proud perhaps;
and, beyond the facts that he was self-taught, had been a pedagogue in
a country school, and had voluntarily abandoned an uncongenial task
for one more to his fancy and potential well-being, the listener was
able to glean little. But one thing stood out clear, and that was the
genius which proclaimed this oddity as exalted a natural musician as
any that had ever captured the heart of the world, and on that
assurance Mr. Pepys proceeded. The upshot of this interview was that
he came to introduce him, having a pretty wide acquaintance in
professional quarters, among the right influential people, with the
result that “Sad Jack,” from being a wandering street performer,
became presently one of the most fashionable soloists in the town,
with the command of a salary in proportion, and engagements covering
the most popular resorts from Spring Gardens to the new Spa at
Islington.
And with that we will leave him for the time being; while as to Mr.
Pepys, having served his purpose, he must walk here and now out of the
picture.