Paul the Minstrel | Page 7

a little," said Paul, "but I have no skill."
"Yet you look to me like one who might have skill," said the man; "you
have the air of it--you look as though you listened, and as though you
dreamed pleasant dreams. But, Jack," he said, turning to his boy, "what
shall we give our friend?--shall he have the 'Song of the Rose' first?"
The boy at this word drew a little metal pipe out of his doublet, and put
it to his lips; and the man reached out his hand and took up a small lute
which lay on the bank beside him. He held up a warning finger to the
boy. "Remember," he said, "that you come in at the fifth chord,
together with the voice--not before." He struck four simple chords on
the lute, very gently, and with a sort of dainty preciseness; and then at
the same moment the little pipe and his own voice began; the pipe
played a simple descant in quicker time, with two notes to each note of
the song, and the man in a brisk and simple way, as it were at the edge
of his lips, sang a very sweet little country song, in a quiet homely
measure.
There seemed to Paul to be nothing short of magic about it. There was
a beautiful restraint about the voice, which gave him a sense both of
power and feeling held back; but it brought before him a sudden picture
of a garden, and the sweet life of the flowers and little trees, taking
what came, sunshine and rain, and just living and smiling, breathing
fragrant breath from morning to night, and sleeping a light sleep till
they should waken to another tranquil day. He listened as if spellbound.

There were but three verses, and though he could not remember the
words, it seemed as though the rose spoke and told her dreams.
He could have listened for ever; but the voice made a sudden stop, not
prolonging the last note, but keeping very closely to the time; the pipe
played a little run, like an echo of the song, the man struck a brisk
chord on the lute--and all was over. "Bravely played, Jack!" said the
singer; "no musician could have played it better. You remembered what
I told you, to keep each note separate, and have no gliding. This song
must trip from beginning to end, like a brisk bird that hops on the
grass." Then he turned to Paul and, with a smile, said, "Reverend sir,
how does my song please you?"
"I never heard anything more beautiful," said Paul simply. "I cannot
say it, but it was like a door opened;" and he looked at the minstrel with
intent eyes;--"may I hear it again?" "Boy," said the singer gravely, "I
had rather have such a look as you gave me during the song than a
golden crown. You will not understand what I say, but you paid me the
homage of the pure heart, the best reward that the minstrel desires."
Then he conferred with the other boy in a low tone, and struck a very
sad yet strong chord upon his lute; and then, with a grave face, he sang
what to Paul seemed like a dirge for a dead hero who had done with
mortal things, and whose death seemed more a triumph than a sorrow.
When he had sung the first verse, the pipe came softly and sadly in, like
the voice of grief that could not be controlled, the weeping of those on
whom lay the shadow of loss. To Paul, in a dim way--for he was but a
child--the song seemed the voice of the world, lamenting its noblest,
yet triumphing in their greatness, and desirous to follow in their steps.
It brought before him all the natural sorrows of death, the call to quit
the sweet and pleasant things of the world--a call that could not be
denied, and that was in itself indeed stronger and even sweeter than the
delights which it bade its listeners leave. And Paul seemed to walk in
some stately procession of men far off and ancient, who followed a
great king to the grave, and whose hearts were too full of wonder to
think yet what they had lost. It was an uplifting sadness; and when the
sterner strain came to an end, Paul said very quietly, putting into words

the thoughts of his full heart, "I did not think that death could be so
beautiful." And the minstrel smiled, but Paul saw that his eyes were full
of tears.
Then all at once the minstrel struck the lute swiftly and largely, and
sang a song of those that march to victory, not elated nor excited, but
strong to