Let us take a glance at the society in which the composer moved in the
heyday of his youth. His greatness was to be perfected in after-years
by bitter rivalries, persecution, alternate oscillations of poverty
and affluence, and a multitude of bitter experiences. But at this time
Handel's life was a serene and delightful one. Rival factions had not
been organised to crush him. Lord Burlington lived much at his
mansion, which was then out of town, although the house is now in the
heart of Piccadilly. The intimate friendship of this nobleman helped
to bring the young musician into contact with many distinguished
people.
It is odd to think of the people Handel met daily without knowing that
their names and his would be in a century famous. The following
picture sketches Handel and his friends in a sprightly fashion:--
"Yonder heavy, ragged-looking youth standing at the corner of Regent
Street, with a slight and rather more refined-looking companion, is
the obscure Samuel Johnson, quite unknown to fame. He is walking with
Richard Savage. As Signor Handel, 'the composer of Italian music,'
passes by, Savage becomes excited, and nudges his friend, who takes
only a languid interest in the foreigner. Johnson did not care for
music; of many noises he considered it the least disagreeable.
"Toward Charing Cross comes, in shovel-hat and cassock, the renowned
ecclesiastic, Dean Swift. He has just nodded patronisingly to
Bononcini in the Strand, and suddenly meets Handel, who cuts him dead.
Nothing disconcerted, the dean moves on, muttering his famous
epigram--
'Some say that Signor Bononcini,
Compared to Handel, is a ninny;
While others vow that to him Handel
Is hardly fit to hold a candle.
Strange that such difference should be
'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee.'
"As Handel enters the 'Turk's Head' at the corner of Regent Street, a
noble coach and four drives up. It is the Duke of Chandos, who is
inquiring for Mr. Pope. Presently a deformed little man, in an
iron-grey suit, and with a face as keen as a razor, hobbles out, makes
a low bow to the burly Handel, who, helping him into the chariot, gets
in after him, and they drive off together to Cannons, the duke's
mansion at Edgeware. There they meet Mr. Addison, the poet Gay, and
the witty Arbuthnot, who have been asked to luncheon. The last number
of the _Spectator_ is on the table, and a brisk discussion soon arises
between Pope and Addison concerning the merits of the Italian opera,
in which Pope would have the better if he only knew a little more
about music, and could keep his temper. Arbuthnot sides with Pope in
favour of Mr. Handel's operas; the duke endeavours to keep the peace.
Handel probably uses his favourite exclamation, 'Vat te tevil I care!'
and consumes the _recherché_ wines and rare viands with undiminished
gusto.
"The Magnificent, or the Grand Duke, as he was called, had built
himself a palace for £230,000. He had a private chapel, and appointed
Handel organist in the room of the celebrated Dr. Pepusch, who retired
with excellent grace before one manifestly his superior. On week-days
the duke and duchess entertained all the wits and grandees in town,
and on Sundays the Edgeware Road was thronged with the gay equipages
of those who went to worship at the ducal chapel and hear Mr. Handel
play on the organ.
"The Edgeware Road was a pleasant country drive, but parts of it were
so solitary that highwaymen were much to be feared. The duke was
himself attacked on one occasion; and those who could afford it never
travelled so far out of town without armed retainers. Cannons was the
pride of the neighbourhood, and the duke--of whom Pope wrote,
'Thus gracious Chandos is beloved at sight'--
was as popular as he was wealthy. But his name is made still more
illustrious by the Chandos anthems. They were all written at Cannons
between 1718 and 1720, and number in all eleven overtures, thirty-two
solos, six duets, a trio, quartet, and forty-seven choruses. Some of
the above are real masterpieces; but, with the exception of 'The waves
of the sea rage horribly,' and 'Who is God but the Lord?' few of them
are ever heard now. And yet these anthems were most significant in the
variety of the choruses and in the range of the accompaniments; and it
was then, no doubt, that Handel was feeling his way toward the great
and immortal sphere of his oratorio music. Indeed, his first
oratorio, 'Esther,' was composed at Cannons, as also the English
version of 'Acis and Galatea.'"
But Handel had other associates, and we must now visit Thomas Britton,
the musical coal-heaver. "There goes the famous small-coal man, a
lover of learning, a musician, and a companion of gentlemen." So the
folks used to say as Thomas Britton, the coal-heaver of Clerkenwell
Green, paced up and down the neighbouring streets with his sack of
small coal on his back, destined for one of his customers. Britton was
great among the great. He was courted by the most fashionable folk of
his day. He was a cultivated coal-heaver, who, besides his musical
taste and ability, possessed an extensive knowledge of chemistry and
the occult sciences.
Britton did more than this. He gave concerts in Aylesbury Street,
Clerkenwell, where this singular man had formed a dwelling-house, with
a concert-room and a coal-store, out of what was originally a stable.
On the ground-floor was the small-coal repository, and over that the
concert-room--very long and narrow, badly lighted, and with a ceiling
so low that a tall man could scarcely stand upright in it. The stairs
to this room were far from pleasant to ascend, and the following
facetious lines by Ward, the author of the "London Spy," confirm
this:--
"Upon Thursdays repair
To my palace, and there
Hobble up stair by stair,
But I pray ye take care
That you break not your shins by a stumble;
"And without e'er a souse
Paid to me or my spouse,
Sit as still as a mouse
At the top of the house,
And there you shall hear how we fumble."
Nevertheless, beautiful duchesses and the best society in town flocked
to Britton's on Thursdays--not to order coals, but to sit out his
concerts.
Let us follow the short, stout little man on a concert-day. The
customers are all served, or as many as can be. The coal-shed is made
tidy and swept up, and the coal-heaver awaits his company. There he
stands at the door of his stable, dressed in his blue blouse,
dustman's hat, and maroon kerchief tightly fastened round his neck.
The concert-room is almost full, and, pipe in hand, Britton awaits a
new visitor--the beautiful Duchess of B----. She is somewhat late (the
coachman, possibly, is not quite at home in the neighbourhood).
Here comes a carriage, which stops at the coal-shop; and, laying down
his pipe, the coal-heaver assists her grace to alight, and in the
genteelest manner escorts her to the narrow staircase leading to the
music-room. Forgetting Ward's advice, she trips laughingly and
carelessly up the stairs to the room, from which proceed faint sounds
of music, increasing to quite an _olla podrida_ of sound as the
apartment is reached--for the musicians are tuning up. The beautiful
duchess is soon recognised, and as soon in deep gossip with her
friends. But who is that gentlemanly man leaning over the
chamber-organ? That is Sir Roger L'Estrange, an admirable performer on
the violoncello, and a great lover of music. He is watching the
subtile fingering of Mr. Handel, as his dimpled hands drift leisurely
and marvellously over the keys of the instrument.
There, too, is Mr. Bannister with his fiddle--the first Englishman,
by-the-by, who distinguished himself upon the violin; there is Mr.
Woolaston, the painter, relating to Dr. Pepusch of how he had that
morning thrown up his window upon hearing Britton crying "Small coal!"
near his house in Warwick Lane, and, having beckoned him in, had made
a sketch for a painting of him; there, too, is Mr. John Hughes, author
of the "Siege of Damascus." In the background also are Mr. Philip
Hart, Mr. Henry Symonds, Mr. Obadiah Shuttleworth, Mr. Abiell
Whichello; while in the extreme corner of the room is Robe, a justice
of the peace, letting out to Henry Needler of the Excise Office the
last bit of scandal that has come into his court. And now, just as
the concert has commenced, in creeps "Soliman the Magnificent," also
known as Mr. Charles Jennens, of Great Ormond Street, who wrote many
of Handel's librettos, and arranged the words for the "Messiah."
"Soliman the Magnificent" is evidently resolved to do justice to his
title on this occasion, with his carefully-powdered wig, frills,
maroon-coloured coat, and buckled shoes; and as he makes his progress
up the room, the company draw aside for him to reach his favourite
seat near Handel. A trio of Corelli's is gone through; then Madame
Cuzzoni sings Handel's last new air; Dr. Pepusch takes his turn at the
harpsichord; another trio of Hasse, or a solo on the violin by
Bannister; a selection on the organ from Mr. Handel's new oratorio;
and then the day's programme is over. Dukes, duchesses, wits and
philosophers, poets and musicians, make their way down the satirised
stairs to go, some in carriages, some in chairs, some on foot, to
their own palaces, houses, or lodgings.