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.”