the Duke of Chandos, at the latter's palace of Cannons, near Edgware.
The post up till then had been held by a certain Dr. Pepusch, but he
resigned at once in favour of Handel. Anything more princely in style
than Cannons could hardly be imagined; its size and magnificence were
the talk of the country for miles around, whilst the fabulous riches
of its owner and his luxuriousness of living earned for him the title
of 'The Grand Duke,' The palace itself has long since disappeared, but
the chapel originally attached to it has been preserved, and now forms
the parish church of Whitchurch, or Little Stanmore. The interior is
furnished and decorated after the fashion of the Italian churches, but
it is not on account of its structural beauty that the church has
become the object of interest to thousands of pilgrims who annually
make their way to the village of Edgware; it is the knowledge that it
was here that Handel composed his first English oratorio, 'Esther,' as
well as numerous anthems and other minor works. The manuscript score
of this fine work--which is but rarely heard now--is to be seen in the
Royal Collection of Handel manuscripts at Buckingham Palace, though a
portion of it is missing. No one who finds his way to the church of
Little Stanmore should fail to notice the organ, for it is the
instrument used by Handel from 1718 to 1721, and on which he played
the organ parts of 'Esther,' when the oratorio was performed for the
first time in the Duke's chapel. With the lavishness that was his
chief characteristic the Duke handed to the composer on this occasion
£1,000, but in so doing he may have been actuated by a sincere desire
to add to Handel's independence. Those were very happy and busy years
which Handel passed at Cannons. Amongst the numerous compositions for
the harpsichord belonging to this period is the suite of pieces which
includes the air, with variations, popularly known as 'The Harmonious
Blacksmith,' The origin of this title has for long been a matter of
discussion; it is quite certain that Handel himself did not so name
the piece, for the manuscript bears the title only of 'Air et
Doubles,' nor was it ever known by any other name during the
composer's lifetime. Yet there are few of us, perhaps, who willingly
reject as fable the story which for many years after Handel's death
was believed to have given a true account of its origin. According to
this story Handel was one day walking to Cannons through the village
of Edgware, when he was overtaken by a heavy shower of rain, and
sought shelter within the smithy. The blacksmith was singing at his
work, and the strokes of his hammer on the anvil kept time to his
song. Handel, it is said, was so struck both by the air and its
accompaniment that on reaching home he wrote down the tune with a set
of variations upon it. Assuming this story to have no foundation in
fact, no satisfactory explanation has been forthcoming to account for
the origin of the title, and when, in 1835, the story was
investigated, it was claimed that both anvil and hammer had been
traced as having passed through several hands. The blacksmith's name
was said to have been Powell, and the anvil is described as bearing a
capital P, and, further, that 'when struck with the hammer it gives,
first, the note B, but immediately afterwards sounds E. These notes
correspond very nearly with the B-flat and E-flat of our present
concert pitch, and therefore coincide very closely with the E-natural
and B-natural of Handel's times,'[3] Again, with regard to the air
itself, the contention that Handel took it from another composer has
never been proved, and there is 'absolutely nothing to show that it is
not the work of Handel.'[4]
[Illustration: '_The strokes of his hammer on the anvil kept
time to his song._']
It is difficult for us to imagine the road leading from the Marble
Arch (then called Tyburn) to Edgware as being infested by highwaymen.
This fact, like that regarding the condition of Piccadilly, serves to
show in a striking manner how circumscribed the London of those days
must have been. Handel must often have had to travel between Cannons
and London, but we do not hear of his having been robbed by the way.
The Duke, however, was attacked on more than one occasion, and he
always performed the journey with an escort of his favourite Swiss
Guards, of whom a body was kept to protect the palace.
For several years the production of opera 'after the Italian style,'
which Handel on his coming over had done so much to stimulate, had
languished for lack of funds. To many Londoners who were fond of music
the sight of the closed doors of the King's Theatre in the Haymarket
imparted a feeling of regret and loss. When, therefore, a number of
rich patrons of music met together and decided to form themselves into
a society for the purpose of reviving the opera in London, the project
was received with signs of general pleasure. The King was greatly
interested, and subscribed £1,000 to the venture. Handel was at once
engaged in the double capacity of composer and 'impressario,' the
latter duty charging him with the selection and engagement of singers.
The new society was to be called the Royal Academy of Music, but we
must not confuse this body with the Royal Academy of Music existing
at the present day, which was founded in 1822.
Handel now set out for Germany with the object of visiting Dresden,
where the Elector of Saxony was maintaining a company of the best
singers for the performance of Italian opera. On his return journey he
paid a visit to Halle, where he found his mother alive, and overjoyed
to see him, though the cheery welcome of his old master Zachau could
no longer be heard, for the old man had gone to his rest. There was
another sad note about this visit, for on the very day that Handel
left for England Sebastian Bach, filled with a longing to meet his
great contemporary, arrived at Halle, whither he had journeyed from
Cöthen, only to find that he was a few hours too late. This was the
last chance of their meeting, for when Handel paid his next visit to
Germany Bach was dead.
Early in the following year the doors of the theatre in the Haymarket
were besieged by a huge crowd, anxious to secure seats for the
performance of Handel's new opera, 'Radamisto,' which was being
produced by the Royal Academy of Music. The applause was deafening,
and the success of the opera was assured. But Handel was not to be
left to enjoy his honours in peace; an opposition party had already
arisen, who were moved to do him evil partly from envy, and partly
because he had stirred them up to resentment by his dominancy and
self-will. From Hamburg came his old enemy, Buononcini, to try his
fortune with the new society, and it was not long ere the rival
composers were engaged with a third musician, whose name is uncertain
(though some state it to have been that of Handel's friend of his
Hamburg days--Ariosti), in the composition of a new opera. It was
arranged that this work should form a kind of competition, with the
object of determining whether Handel or Buononcini was the better
composer. Thus Handel wrote the third act, and Buononcini the second,
the first act being committed to the hands of the third musician,
whose claim to be regarded as a rival was very small in comparison
with the others. When the new work, 'Muzio Scævola,' was performed
Handel's act was pronounced by the principal judges to be much
superior to that of Buononcini's; the latter's friends, however,
refused to accept a defeat, and being joined by others, the battle
waxed exceedingly hot. The newspapers took it up, and very soon
nothing else was talked about but the rival merits of the two
composers. Numerous verses were composed on either side, as well as
others which poked fun at both parties. Amongst the latter was an
epigram written by John Byrom, the Lancashire poet, which, without the
knowledge of the author, got into all the papers, and was considered
to hit off the situation more neatly than any which had gone before.
Thus it runs:
'Some say, compar'd to Buononcini,
That Mynheer Handel's but a Ninny;
Others aver, that he to Handel
Is scarcely fit to hold a Candle;
Strange all this Difference should be,
'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!'
That Handel showed scant consideration for those who differed from him
in regard to his works is proved by his treatment of the artists who
were engaged to perform for him. He could not be thwarted from his
bent, nor cajoled into doing anything that he disliked, whilst his
stubborn pride prevented him from yielding to any, whether great or
small. When, in 1723, his opera 'Ottone' was about to be produced, he
had engaged as prima donna the great Continental singer, Francesca
Cuzzoni. The lady does not appear to have possessed the sweetest of
tempers, and she showed her independence by not putting in an
appearance in England until the rehearsals were far advanced. This
could not have been pleasing to the composer, but when on her
presenting herself at the theatre she flatly refused to sing the aria
'Falsa Immagine' in the way Handel had written it, he burst into a
rage, and seizing her in his arms, cried: 'Madam, you are a very
she-devil, but I vill have you know dat I am Beelzebub, de prince of
devils!' with which he made as if to throw her out of the window.
Cuzzoni was so frightened by his fury that she promised to do as she
was bid. Accordingly, she sang as he directed, and made one of her
greatest successes with the song. How much the public appreciated the
singing of this gifted artist we may guess when it is told that the
directors obtained as much as five guineas for each seat when she was
advertised to sing.
Although he would brook no contradiction on the part of those who were
engaged to execute his works, Handel spared no pains to help them over
a difficulty, or to show how his music should be expressed. At times,
however, his temper took the form of the most unsparing sarcasm. One
day a singer at rehearsal protested against the manner in which Handel
was accompanying him on the harpsichord, and in a fit of anger
exclaimed: 'If you continue to accompany me in that fashion I will
jump from the platform on to the harpsichord, and smash it!' 'Vat!'
cried Handel, looking up in surprise, 'do you say you vill jump? Den I
vill advertise it at once, for people vould come to see you jump dat
vill never come to hear you sing!'
We have not space to describe the whole of the works which Handel
wrote for the Royal Academy of Music. His industry was untiring, and
the fertility of his genius was such that within a period of eight
years from the beginning of the Society's work he had composed and
produced no fewer than fourteen operas. Amongst this number was the
opera called 'Scipione,' in which is to be found a 'Triumphal March in
D,' which the Grenadier Guards claim to have been specially composed
for their regiment by Handel before its inclusion in the opera. The
Guards are very proud of their march, and the band still plays it
under the title of the 'Royal Guards March.'
During the whole of this time, however, Handel's enemies never ceased
their opposition, and, despite successes, it was soon apparent that
the rival parties were bent on destroying each other. The enormous
cost incurred in producing operatic works, added to the losses
occasioned by quarrels and dissensions amongst the singers, many of
whom deserted Handel to join his enemies, at length brought the Royal
Academy to the end of its resources. In 1727, when the society was
tottering to its fall, the rival theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields
brought out the famous work called 'The Beggar's Opera,' written by
John Gay, which formed the first English ballad opera. Its success was
stupendous; London was taken completely by storm, and everybody was
soon singing and humming its catching airs. Fickle as the public taste
had hitherto shown itself to be in regard to musical productions, it
now became fixed on the new work, and opera in the 'Italian style' was
completely deserted. What was the secret of this wonderful success?
Simply this: a poet seized upon a number of the most entrancing airs
which the musical genius of England and Scotland had produced, many of
them belonging to ancient times, together with the favourite melodies
of the day, and he set them to words which were utterly unworthy of
the sentiment inspired by these beautiful compositions. The richest
stores of ballad music were pillaged for this degrading work; the
march in Handel's 'Rinaldo' was stolen to form a robber's chorus,
whilst the exploits of Captain Macheath and his highwaymen companions
were held up as models of daring and gallantry when performed to the
most captivating of airs. The public hailed the piece with delight;
the ladies modelled their dresses on the stage costume of 'Polly,' the
heroine, and decorated their fans with the words of her songs, and for
sixty-two nights the walls of the Lincoln's Inn Fields theatre shook
with thunders of applause from gallery, pit, and stalls. In thus
speaking of a work which not only held London captive for so long, but
was afterwards performed in every part of the kingdom, we must not
forget that its remarkable popularity was due in some measure to the
brightness of its dialogue; to its witty sayings hitting off men and
manners of the day; but, above all, to the exquisite beauty of its
melodies, which served to lay a glamour over what otherwise would have
undoubtedly been condemned as vulgar.
The success of the 'Beggar's Opera' completed the ruin of the Royal
Academy of Music, but Handel, undismayed by the failure of this great
scheme, and setting his enemies at defiance, went once more to Italy
to collect a new company of singers, for he was determined to carry on
the work himself with the fortune which his operas had brought him. On
his way home he paid a visit to Halle, where he found his aged mother
stricken by illness. She lingered until the following year (1730),
when she died at the age of eighty. For several years Handel struggled
to build up the fortunes of Italian opera in London, but the
persistent rivalry and opposition of his enemies, combined with the
decadence of musical taste on the part of the public, caused his
losses to accumulate, until, in 1737, he found himself, after repeated
failures, deeply in debt, and with his health broken down by overwork
and anxiety. The whole of his fortune of £10,000 had been swallowed up
in this disastrous enterprise, and it was a poor consolation for him
to know that his rivals failed in the same year with a loss of
£12,000. Not even at this juncture, however, would his indomitable
will submit to the force of circumstances. After a brief rest at Aix
la Chapelle, with a course of vapour baths, he returned to London
prepared to begin the battle afresh, and although he had lost to a
great extent the favour of the rich, his popularity was such that a
statue of himself was executed by public subscription, and erected in
Vauxhall Gardens, an honour which, as has been truly observed, had
been paid to no other composer during his lifetime.
It was only after several failures that Handel was at length convinced
that it was useless to attempt to re-awaken the interest of English
audiences in Italian opera, and yet, although he made no concealment
of his regret at the abandonment of a line of composition in which he
had so greatly excelled, it was with no diminished vigour or
determination that he now, at the age of fifty-five, turned his
attention to work of a serious character. And if we admit that Handel
excelled in operatic work, what shall we say of the oratorios which
formed the later creations of his genius? To many of us, perhaps, his
name is so intimately associated with the titles of his religious
works that we are almost ready to believe that all which had gone
before was merely in the nature of preparation for such noble works as
'Saul,' 'Israel in Egypt,' 'Samson,' 'Jephtha,' and, above all, the
'Messiah.' It is on the 'Messiah' alone that our space permits us to
dwell, and we will endeavour to relate the story of how this great
oratorio came to be written.
It was in 1741 that the plan of writing the 'Messiah' was formed, but
it is not known whether the subject originated with Handel himself, or
was suggested to him by a friend named Mr. Charles Jennens, a man of
great literary tastes and acquirements, who lived a retired life in
the country. It is certain, however, that Mr. Jennens selected and
wrote out the passages from the Scriptures, and sent them to Handel to
set to music, and for the care and choice exercised in this
compilation we owe to Mr. Jennens a deep debt of gratitude. Towards
the end of this year Handel received an invitation from the
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland to visit Dublin, as the Irish people were
very desirous of hearing some of his compositions performed in their
country. Handel accepted the invitation very willingly, for he saw in
the tone in which it was conveyed an assurance of the sympathy of the
sister isle, as well as a prospect of being enabled to retrieve his
fallen fortunes. He left England at the beginning of November, having
previously sent a promise to Dublin that he would devote a portion of
the money realised by his performances to three charitable
institutions in that city. The music of the 'Messiah' must have been
actually composed before he set foot upon the ship at Chester, for at
the end of the following month we find him writing to Mr. Jennens from
Dublin, and referring to the latter's oratorio, '"Messiah," which I
set to music before I left England,'[5] Moreover, he must have had the
manuscript score with him on his voyage, though his friends in London
were ignorant of the fact; for we learn that being detained at
Chester for some days by contrary winds, he got together at his inn
several of the choir boys from the cathedral in order to try over some
of the choral passages in the work. Needless to say, the title of the
oratorio was not allowed to transpire on this occasion, but many of us
may feel curious to know whether any of these young singers felt
impressed by the beauty of the parts which it was their envied lot to
'try over' in the composer's room at the hostelry. One at least of
these trial performers must have carried away an unpleasant experience
of the great man's impetuous temper. 'Can you sing at sight?' was the
question put to each before he was asked to sing, and one broke down
lamentably at the start. 'What de devil you mean!' cried Handel,
snatching the music from his hands. 'Did not you say you could sing at
sight?' 'Yes, sir, I did,' responded the confused singer, 'but not at
_first_ sight!'
The welcome extended to Handel by the people of Dublin was a very warm
one; the performances were a great success, and then we get the first
public mention of the new oratorio. At the 'Musick Hall in Fishamble
Street, Dublin' is to be performed 'Mr. Handel's new grand Oratorio,
called the "Messiah," in which the Gentlemen of the Choirs of both
Cathedrals will assist, with some Concertos on the Organ, by Mr.
Handel.' It was further announced that the proceeds would be devoted
to two charitable institutions, and 'for the Relief of the Prisoners
in the several Gaols.' These latter were miserable persons who had
been imprisoned for debt, and whose sufferings through neglect and
poverty were such as to excite deep compassion. Four hundred pounds
was the sum realised by this performance, which took place on Monday,
April 13, 1742, and no doubt the poor prisoners felt very grateful to
the composer, who had thus put into practice the very precepts which
his sacred work inspired. So great was the success of this first
performance that a second was called for, the announcement of which
contained an earnest appeal to the ladies to leave their hoops behind
them. This singular request was obeyed, with the result that
accommodation was found for one hundred more persons than on the first
occasion.
[Illustration: '"_Did not you say you could sing at sight?_"'
'"_Yes, sir, but not at_ first _sight!_"']
The citizens of Dublin seem to have been very loath to part with
Handel, whilst he, for his part, must have felt in the warmth of his
reception some recompense for the neglect from which he had been made
to suffer in London. The visit was therefore prolonged for many
months, and it was not until March 23, 1743, that a London audience
gathered to witness their first performance of the 'Messiah'. How is
it possible to give, in a few words, an idea of this great work? When
we hear the 'Messiah' performed we are struck by its magnificence and
beauty of expression; the language of Scripture seems to be clothed,
as it were, in a beautiful garment of music which, ever changing as
the oratorio proceeds, appears to give the fullest and most exact
expression to each portion of the sacred story. At one time the music
blazes forth like a jewelled crown when it catches the sun; at another
it soars heavenwards like the song of the lark; once again it pours
forth like the thunderous roar of a huge cataract, filling our ears
with the majesty of its volume; then, again, it sinks to the tender
moan of the wind as it sweeps through the trees; but everywhere and at
all times it seems to exactly fit the words, and to give them their
noblest expression. The oratorio opens with an overture, grand, yet
simple, and designed to prepare our minds for the story which follows.
Then we hear the words of the prophet Isaiah, 'Comfort ye my people,'
telling of the coming of the Messiah, and relating the signs by which
His approach is to be heralded--'Ev'ry valley shall be exalted,'
etc.--and leading up to the revelation, 'The people that walked in
darkness have seen a great light,' and so to the mighty outburst of
harmony--'Wonderful! Counsellor!'--with which the prophecy reaches its
culminating point. When these words are thundered forth in chorus we
seem to have suddenly presented to our eyes a picture of the Messiah
as He was revealed to the mind of the Prophet. But note attentively
what follows. With the concluding notes of that grand choral outburst
still ringing in our ears--the designation of a mighty Prince, a great
Counsellor--we find ourselves, at the ushering in of the Nativity,
not, as the words of the chorus would seem to predict, at the
welcoming scene of a great Prince in all his splendour, but in the
presence of a group of lowly shepherds tending their flocks in the
quiet fields of Judæa. How wonderfully striking is the contrast
between the grandeur of the concluding chorus and the simplicity and
quiet beauty of the scene now presented to us by the Pastoral
Symphony! It is founded upon the ancient melody which Handel had heard
the Calabrian shepherds play at Rome[6] many years before, and soon
the air is ringing with the chorus of the heavenly host, 'Glory to God
in the highest,' followed by the joyful outburst, 'Rejoice greatly.'
Then comes the revelation of what Christ shall be to His people--'He
shall feed His flock like a Shepherd,' 'His yoke is easy and His
burthen is light--' with which the first part comes to an end.
In the second part we are shown the incidents leading up to the
Passion, and our emotions are deeply stirred by the pathetic music
indicating the sufferings of our Lord. What could be more touchingly
beautiful than the air, 'He was despised and rejected of men'? in the
writing of which Handel is said to have burst into tears. Then, the
Passion past, we have the realisation of all that that sacrifice
meant, the awakening of hope, followed by the triumphal chorus, 'Lift
up your heads, O ye gates!' and after a succession of beautiful airs
and choruses we reach the culminating point of the Recognition in that
grand hymn of praise, the 'Hallelujah Chorus,' with which the second
part concludes.
Scarcely have the glorious hallelujahs of the last chorus died away
ere the beautiful strains of the air, 'I know that my Redeemer
liveth,' are ringing in our ears; from this we are led to the chorus,
'Worthy is the Lamb,' indicating the glorification of the sacrifice,
and the marvellous concluding chorus of the 'Amen,' which strikingly
portrays the unified assent of heaven and earth to the Godhead of
Christ.
On the occasion of the first performance of the 'Messiah' in London,
at which the King was present, the vast audience were so impressed by
the grandeur of the music and the reverence which it inspired that
when the 'Hallelujah Chorus' began, and the words, 'For the Lord God
omnipotent reigneth,' rang out, they one and all, including the King,
sprang to their feet as if by a given signal, and stood until the last
notes of the chorus had been sounded. From that time forward it has
been the custom at performances of the oratorio to stand during the
'Hallelujah Chorus.'