"My soul is dark--oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear,
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
"If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again;
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain.
"But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first,
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst.
"For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless sorrow long;
And now 't is doomed to know the worst,
And break at once, or yield to song."
All, however, do not agree with Byron and Shakespeare. Charles Lamb
says:--
"Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart,
Just as the whim bites.--For my part,
I do not care a farthing candle
For either of them, or for Handel.
Cannot a man live free and easy
Without admiring Pergolesi?
Or through the earth with comfort go,
That never heard of Doctor Blow?
I hardly have;
And yet I eat, and drink, and shave,
Like other people, if you watch it,
And know no more of stave or crotchet
Than did the primitive Peruvians,
Or those old ante queer diluvians,
That lived in the unwash'd earth with Jubal,
Before that dirty blacksmith, Tubal,
By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at,
Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut."
Witty essayist, your "Free Thoughts," like many other of your clever
writings, are erroneous. In all ages, and even by the least enlightened
of mankind, the efficacy of music has been acknowledged, and considered
as a genuine and natural source of delight. Now it awakens the latent
courage in the breast of the soldier, and now administers to the pensive
sorrow of the weeping mother. At one moment it inspires the soul with
sublime and hallowed awe, and at the next gives life to unbounded mirth.
It is suited to stimulate the feeling of devotion, and to increase the
boisterous pleasures of a village harvest-home. Wearied with the
oppression of the noon-day sun, and exhausted with labour, the
husbandman sits beneath the shade of his native oak, and sings the songs
he heard in infancy. The man of business, the man of letters, and the
statesman, wearied with the exertion of mind and burden of care, seek
relief round the family hearth, and forget awhile ambition and fears
under the influence of music. And the dejected emigrant sings the songs
of fatherland, whilst recollections, sad but sweet, arise and disappear.
"In far-distant climes, when the tear gushes o'er
For home, love, and friendship, that charm us no more,
Oh! what on the exiles' dark sorrows can shine
Like the rapture that flows at the songs of Lang-syne!
"The music of Britain is sweet 'midst the scene;
But, ah! could you hear it, when seas roll between!
'Tis then, and then only, the soul can divine
The music that dwells in the songs of Lang-syne.
"The spirit, when torn from earth's objects of love,
Loses all its regrets in the chorus above:
So in exile we cannot but cease to repine,
When it hallows with ecstacy songs of Lang-syne."
But I must allow music herself to prove her influence and assert her
sway.
(CAPRICE HONGROIS.)
"Cease gentle sounds, nor kill me quite
With such excess of sweet delight.
Each trembling note invades my heart,
And thrills through every vital part:
A soft--a pleasing pain
Pursues my heated blood through every vein.
What--what does the enchantment mean?
Now, wild with fierce desire,
My breast is all on fire!
In softened raptures now I die!
Can empty sound such joys impart?
Can music thus transport the heart
With melting ecstacy!
Oh! art divine! exalted blessing,
Each celestial charm expressing--
Kindest gift the heavens bestow,
Sweetest food that mortals know!
But give the charming magic o'er--
My beating heart can bear no more!"
George Frederick Handel was born at Halle, in Lower Saxony, on the 24th
February, 1684. His father (who was a surgeon, and was sixty-three
years old when this child first saw the light) determined to make a
lawyer of him: but nature had resolved to make him a composer; and the
struggle between nature and the father commenced at the very cradle of
the future author of the "Messiah."
Scarcely had he begun to speak when he articulated musical sounds. The
doctor was terribly alarmed, when he discovered instincts which in his
eyes were of so low an order. He understood nothing of art, nor of the
noble part which artists sustain in the world. He saw in them nothing
but a sort of mountebank, who amuse the world in its idle moments.
Uneasy, and almost ashamed at the inclinations of his son, the father of
Handel opposed them by all possible means. He would not send him to any
of the public schools, because there not only grammar but the gamut
would be taught him--he would not permit him to be taken to any place,
of whatever description, where he could hear music--he forbade him the
slightest exercise of that nature and banished every kind of musical
instrument far from the house.
But he might as well have told the river that it was not to flow. Nature
surmounted every obstacle to her decree. The precautions taken to stifle
the instincts of the child served only to fortify by concentrating them.
He found means to procure a spinet, and to conceal it in a garret,
whither he went to play when all the household was asleep--without any
guidance finding out everything for himself, and merely by permitting
his little fingers to wander over the keyboard, he produced harmonic
combinations; and at _seven_ years of age he discovered that he knew how
to play upon the spinet.
The poor father soon discovered his mistake, and in the following
manner. He had, by a former marriage, a son who was valet to the Duke of
Saxe Weisenfield. He wished to go and visit him; and George, who was
then seven years old, and who was not acquainted with this brother,
begged of his father to take him with him. When this was refused he did
not insist, but watched for the moment when the coach set off, and
followed it on foot. The father saw him, stopped the coach and scolded
him; when the child, as if he did not hear the scolding, recommenced his
supplications to be allowed to take part in the journey, and at last
(thanks to that persistance which predicted the man of energy which he
eventually proved to be) his request was granted.
When they had arrived at the palace of the Duke, the boy stole off to
the organ in the chapel as soon as the service was concluded, and was
unable to resist the temptation of touching it. The Duke, not
recognizing the style of his organist, made inquiries; and when the
trembling little artist was brought before him he encouraged him, and
soon won his secret from him.
The Duke then addressed himself to the father, and represented to him
that it was a sort of crime against humanity to stifle so much genius
in its birth. The old doctor was greatly astonished, and had not much to
answer. The opinion of a sovereign prince must have had, moreover, a
great influence over the mind of a man who considered musicians
mountebanks. He permitted himself to be convinced, and promised, not
without some regret, to respect a vocation which manifested itself by
such unmistakeable signs. Handel was present, his eyes fastened upon his
powerful protector, without losing a word of the argument. Never did he
forget it, and for ever afterwards he regarded the Duke of
Saxe-Weisenfeld as his benefactor, for having given such good advice to
his father. On his return home his wishes were gratified, and he was
permitted to take lessons from Sackau, the organist of the cathedral at
Halle.
Sackau was an organist of the old school, learned and fond of his art.
He was not long in discovering what a pupil Fortune had sent him. He
began by carefully instructing him in general principles, and then laid
before him a vast collection of German and Italian music which he
possessed, and which they analyzed together. Sackau was every day more
and more astonished at his marvellous progress; and, as he loved wine
nearly as well as music, he often sent him to take his place at the
organ on Sundays, whenever he had a good _dejeuner_ to take part in. At
length, although he found him of great use, this worthy man confessed,
with excellent and admirable pride, that his pupil knew more than
himself, and advised that he should be sent to Berlin, where he might
strengthen himself by studying other models.
Handel was eleven years of age when he went to Berlin. There he passed
for a prodigy. The Elector, wishing to become the patron of so rare a
genius, manifested a disposition to attach him to himself, and to send
him to Italy to complete his musical education. But when the father was
consulted, he did not think it wise to enchain the future of his son to
the Court of Berlin, and he excused himself, saying that he was now an
old man, and that he wished to keep near him the only son who remained
to him; and, as in those days it was not prudent to oppose a prince on
his own land, Handel was brought back somewhat hastily to his native
town.
Handel's father died shortly after the return of his son from Berlin, in
1697, leaving him poor; and it became necessary to provide for his
_existence_ as well as his _renown_. Halle was too small to contain him.
He wished to visit Italy, but not having the means of such a journey, he
went to Hamburg in the month of July, 1703.
Soon after his arrival in Hamburg, the place of the organist of Lubeck
was offered for competition, upon the _retirement_ of the old incumbent.
Handel canvassed for the vacancy; but finding a rather singular
condition attached to the programme, which was _that the successor was
to marry the daughter of the retiring organist_, as this was not quite
agreeable to him, he returned to Hamburg as happy as he went. This
adventure, at the very outset of his career, appears all the more
original, when we remember that Handel never manifested any taste for
matrimony.
I shall not occupy your time by describing Handel's peregrinations
through Italy--whereever he went his fame preceded him. In 1709 he left
Italy, with an intent to settle in Germany. He came to Hanover. The
Elector George of Brunswick, afterwards George I. of England, was
delighted to receive such a man in his principality, and offered to
retain him as his chapel master, at a salary of 1800 ducats, about £300
a year.
Handel was not very desirous of occupying this post. For at the Court of
the elector he had already met some British noblemen who had pressed him
to visit England; and being persuaded by them to undertake that journey,
he did not wish to engage himself, except upon the condition of being
allowed to accomplish it. The condition was accepted and he set out at
the end of the year. Passing through Dusseldorf he could scarcely tear
himself away; for the Elector Palatine wished to keep him at any price.
Thence he went to Halle to embrace his mother, who was now blind; and
his good old master, Sackau. Afterwards he visited Holland and arrived
in London at the close of 1710.
Handel's first work in England was the Opera of Rinaldo, and this at
once established his reputation.
The Cavatina in the first act, "Cairo Sposa," was to be found, in 1711,
upon all the harpsichords of Great Britain, as a model of pathetic
grace. The march was adopted by the regiment of Life Guards, who played
it every day for forty years. Like the regiments themselves, marches
have their days and their strokes of fortune; and this one, after a long
and honourable existence, was subsequently pressed into the service of
the highway robbers. Twenty years later Pepusch made out of it the
Robber's chorus in the Beggar's Opera, "Let us take road." The
brilliant morceau in the second act, "Il tri Cerbero," was also set to
English words--"Let the waiter bring clean glasses," and was a long time
the most popular song at all merry-makings. But what shall be said of
"Lascia che io pianza?" Stradella's divine air of "I miei sospiri," has
nothing more moving, or more profoundly tender.
It has been asserted that in music the _beau ideal_ changes every thirty
years, but that is an ill-natured criticism. Certain forms of
accompaniment may grow out of fashion like the cut of a coat. But a fine
melody remains eternally beautiful and always agreeable to listen to.
The 100th Psalm of the middle ages is as magnificent to-day as it was
when nearly four centuries ago it came from the brain of its composer,
Franc.[D] "Laschia che io pianza" and "I miei sospiri" will be admirable
and admired to the very end of the world.
Handel's publisher was said to have gained £1,500 from the publication
of Rinaldo, which drew from Handel this complaint, "My Dear Sir, as it
is only right that we should be upon an equal footing, _you_ shall
_compose_ the next opera, and I will sell it." Publishers then, as now,
not only lived by the brains of others, but had the lion's share of the
profits.
Handel's success as an harpsichordist was equal to that which he enjoyed
as a composer. He very often played solos in the theatre, and at the
house of Thomas Britton.
Britton, the small coal merchant of Clerkenwell Green, deserves a
passing remark.
Thomas Britton belonged to that class of men whom persons of limited
views are accustomed to term _the lower orders_ of society, for he
gained his daily bread by crying small coal, which he carried about the
streets in a sack upon his shoulders. He lived near Clerkenwell Green, a
quarter of the town with which fashionable people were scarcely
acquainted before he made it illustrious.
How it came to pass that he learnt to play upon the _viola de gamba_ is
not known, but he played upon it, and he was so much of an artist, that
he grouped around him a number of amateurs who were happy to perform
concerted music under his direction.
Britton was the tenant of a stable which he divided horizontally by a
floor--on the ground floor was his coal shop. The upper story formed a
long and narrow room, and it was in this chamber that the first meetings
in the nature of private concerts took place in England, and
instrumental music was first played regularly. Here it was that from
1678 to 1714 (the period of his death), the itinerant small coal
merchant weekly entertained the intelligent world of London at his
musical soirées, always gratuitously. Among others, the Duchess of
Queensbury, one of the most celebrated beauties of the Court, was very
regular in her attendance.
Pepusch and Handel played the harpsichord and the organ there.
Hawkins mentions, as a proof of the great consideration which Britton
acquired, that he was called "_Sir_;" and many persons, unable to
believe that a man of that class and of such a business could arrive by
natural means to be called "Sir," took him for a magician, an atheist,
and a Jesuit.
In 1715, Handel had produced at the theatre in the Haymarket, a new
opera _Amadiji_. The _poem_ of Amadiji is signed, in right of his
authorship, by the new manager of the theatre James Heidegger, commonly
called the "_Swiss Count_." He was said to be the ugliest man of his
time; Lord Chesterfield wagered that it was impossible to discover a
human being so disgraced by nature. After having searched through the
town, a hideous old woman was found, and it was agreed that Heidegger
was handsomer. But as Heidegger was pluming himself upon his victory,
Chesterfield required that he should put on the old woman's bonnet.
Thus attired the Swiss Count appeared horribly ugly, and Chesterfield
was unanimously declared the winner, amid thunders of applause.
Heidegger, who made so light of a joke at his own expense, dedicated the
libretto of Amadis to the Earl of Burlington, at whose house, in
Piccadilly, the music had been composed by Handel. When the King asked
the Earl why he went so far to live, he replied that he was fond of
solitude, and that he was certain that he had found a place where no one
could come and build beside him. It is one hundred and forty seven years
since he said this. Piccadilly, where the house of this solitary lord is
to be found, is now, I need scarcely tell you, one of the most central
and fashionable parts of London.
In 1717, Handel paid a flying visit to his native town. When he returned
to London, in 1718, he found the Italian theatre closed, being unable to
support itself; but the chapel of the Duke of Chandos was in a
flourishing condition. The Duke of Chandos, formerly Paymaster-General
of Queen Anne's army, had built near the village of Edgeware a mansion
called Cannons.
In "A journey through England," by Miss Spence, this mansion is thus
described:--
"The palace of the Duke of Chandos was erected in the eighteenth
century. This magnificent structure with its decorations and furniture
cost £230,000. The pillars of the great hall were of marble, as were the
steps of the principal staircase, each step consisting of one piece
twenty-two feet long. The establishment of the household was not
inferior to the splendour of the habitation. Notwithstanding the three
successive shocks which his fortune received by his concern in the
African Company and the Mississippi and South Sea speculations in
1718-19-20, the Duke lived in splendour at Cannons till his death in
1744, rather as the presumptive heir to a diadem than as one of Her
Majesty's subjects. So extraordinary indeed, was his style of living,
that he was designated '_The Grand Duke_.'"
Among other objects of luxury this duke had a chapel furnished like the
churches of Italy. It was situate a short distance from the mansion, and
we are told that he went there with true Christian humility, "attended
by his Swiss Guards," ranged as the Yeoman of the Guard. Every Sunday
the road from London to Edgeware was thronged with carriages of the
members of the nobility and gentry, who went to pray to God with his
grace. Dr. Pepusch, one of the greatest musical celebrities of the time,
was the first chapel master; but the Duke of Chandos, who loved ever to
worship the Lord with the best of everything, made proposals to the
illustrious Handel, and persuaded him to take the place of Pepusch. The
Musical Biography tells us that "Dr. Pepusch fully acquiesced in the
opinion of Handel's superior merit, and retired from his eminent and
honourable situation without any expression whatever either of chagrin
or disappointment."
The wise labour for their own sakes, for their own satisfaction, and in
the midst of general indifference; but artists only work when they are
excited by public attention. The most fruitful have need of external
animation to become productive, and require immediate applause. Handel,
having an orchestra and singers at his disposal, with the guests of a
wealthy nobleman for audience, set himself passionately to work. It was
at Cannons that he wrote the two Te Deums and the twelve famous Anthems,
called the Chandos Anthems.
Of the splendid residence wherein the Duke of Chandos gave these
magnificent "feasts of reason and flow of soul," nothing is now left but
the chapel, which, as I said before, was constructed apart from the
mansion. It is now the parish church of Edgeware. The most interesting
relic is an organ, of moderate size, which stands behind the altar.
Upon this may be found a little brass plate, bearing this inscription:--
--------------------------------------
| |
| HANDEL |
| WAS ORGANIST OF THIS CHURCH |
| FROM THE YEAR 1718 TO 1721, |
| AND COMPOSED |
| THE ORATORIO OF ESTHER |
| ON THIS ORGAN |
--------------------------------------
The mansion was sold in 1750, three years after the Duke's death, for
eleven thousand pounds. (It had cost, you recollect, two hundred and
thirty thousand pounds.) Not a vestige of it is left; and, as the site
is now in a state of cultivation, Pope's prediction is realized:
"Another age shall see the golden ear
Imbrown the slope and nod on the parterre.
Deep harvests bury all his pride has planned,
And laughing Ceres reassume the land."
_Essay_--"_Of the Use of Riches_."
The magnificent Duke himself is now almost forgotten. A marble statue,
which was erected to his memory in the crypt of the chapel, is now in
the last state of dilapidation. The wind whistles through the broken
windows of its funereal abode; and the plaster of the roof, detached
from its skeleton of laths, powders his enormous wig, and soils the
imperial robe that drapes his shoulders. But the spirit of the master of
Cannons may console itself; for in the verses of the poets are monuments
of infinitely greater durability than marble. And has not Pope sung:--
"True, some are open, and to all men known;
Others so very close, they're hid from none.
(So darkness strikes the sense no less than light;)
Thus gracious Chandos is beloved at sight."
_Essay_--"_Of the Characters of Man_."
On either side of the statue stand two long figures, clothed, like it,
in Roman costume. These are the first two wives of the Duke. But he
married a third wife, who has not, however, been permitted to enter the
sanctuary.
The story of this third marriage is worth telling you.
One day the Duke being on a journey, he saw, at the door of an inn at
which the horses were changed, a groom beating a young servant girl with
a horse-whip. Taking pity on the poor girl, the Duke went to interpose
between them, when he was informed that the groom and the girl were
married. This being the case, nothing could be said; for the law of
England at that time permitted husbands to beat their wives to any
excess short of death. The groom, who had noticed the movement of the
Duke, came up and offered to sell him his wife, if he would buy her; and
in order to save her from further punishment he did so. But when the
bargain was concluded, the Duke did not know what to do with his new
acquisition, and so he sent her to school. Soon after this the Duchess
of Chandos died, and the Duke took it into his head that he would marry
his purchase--so that eventually the poor servant girl, whom a groom
had beaten by the road side before every passer by, became Duchess of
Chandos, and comported herself in her new rank with perfect dignity.
* * * * *
But to return to Handel and to Cannons. One day, as he was going there,
he was overtaken by a shower in the midst of the village of Edgeware,
and took shelter in the house of one Powell, who was a blacksmith as
well as parish clerk of Whitchurch. After the usual salutations, Powell
fell to work again at his forge, singing an old song the while. By an
extraordinary phenomenon, the hammer, striking in time, drew from the
anvil two harmonic sounds, which, being in accord with the melody, made
a sort of continuous bass. Handel was struck by the incident, listened,
remembered the air and its strange accompaniment, and, when he returned
home, composed out of it a piece for the harpsichord. This is the piece
which has been published separately a thousand times under the title of
_The Harmonious Blacksmith_. After an existence of upwards of a hundred
and forty years, this piece is continually being reprinted, and it will
be reprinted so long as the human race is sensible to music. Judge for
yourselves, as it shall now be kindly played for you.