ON PAROLE.
If the shock of this abrupt arrest of the whole body of English
travellers, who happened to be within reach of the First Consul, fell
sharply on those at home, it fell at least no less sharply on those who
were arrested.
An official notice was served upon all who could, by the utmost
stretching, be accounted amenable to the act. In that notice, received
alike by Colonel Baron and by Denham Ivor, they were informed
that--"All the English enrolled in the Militia, from the ages of
eighteen to sixty, or holding any commission from His Britannic
Majesty, shall be made prisoners of war;"--the reason given being the
same as was alleged in the version which speedily appeared in English
papers.
The mention of the Militia was, however, additional; and there was
something else also. It might fairly have been argued that professional
men, men of business, and men of no particular employment, could not be
included in the above statement. To guard against such reasoning the
document went on to explain--"I tell you beforehand that no pretext,
no excuse, can exclude you; as, according to British law, none can
dispense you from serving in the Militia."
This notion was made the basis for a far more sweeping arrest than had
at first been supposed possible. Not only officers in the Army and
Navy, who were then in France or in other countries under the dominion
of Napoleon, not only men who had served or who might be called upon
to serve in the Militia, but lawyers and doctors, clergymen and men of
rank, men of business and men in trade, all alike were detained, all
alike were forced immediately to constitute themselves prisoners of war
upon parole, with only the alternative of becoming prisoners of war in
prison, instead of upon parole.
Those who consented to give their word of honour not to attempt to
escape were allowed to remain at large, and to lodge where they
would, under certain limitations. That is to say, they had to live in
specified places, where they were under the continual inspection of
the gendarmerie, and where they had at regular intervals to report
themselves. Whether they were soldiers, sailors, clergymen, or business
men, they were thus at once cut off from their work in life, and many
were debarred from their only means of livelihood.
As a first move, the mass of the Paris détenus were ordered to
Fontainebleau; and thither Colonel and Mrs. Baron had to betake
themselves. Thither also Denham Ivor would speedily have to follow:
though, on the score of danger to others from infection, a few days'
delay was permitted.
The question had at once arisen whether Mrs. Baron should not be sent
to England with Roy, as soon as the boy might be fit to travel, since
women were theoretically free to go where they would, provided only
that they could obtain passports. But Mrs. Baron refused to consider
any such proposal. She could not and would not be separated from her
husband. "Of course I shall go to Fontainebleau," she said decisively.
"It cannot be for long. Roy must come to us there. It only means
leaving his schooling for a quarter of a year; and he will not be
strong enough for lessons at present. Something is sure to be arranged
soon, and then we shall all go home together."
Others were less sanguine of a quick release; but Colonel Baron could
seldom stand out against his wife, when she set her dainty foot down.
He made a half struggle, and won from her a promise that, if he should
be ordered farther away, she would then consent to Roy's being sent
home. Beyond that he failed to get his own way.
Long before Roy could be counted safe for even the short journey to
Fontainebleau, Denham had an intimation that his going thither might be
no longer deferred. Thus far he had not thought it needful to tell the
boy what had happened; but now the telling had become a necessity.
"Den, I want to look out of the window. Oh, let me look out," entreated
Roy, as the heavy beat of a drum sounded. He wriggled on the hard sofa,
where he had begun to spend a part of each day. Roy had grown thin, and
his eyes blinked weakly when turned to the light.
"You want to see the soldiers?"
"Yes. Do let me. May I try to walk to the window all alone? I know I
can."
Ivor laughed, though not mirthfully. "Try!" he answered, and Roy made a
brave attempt, actually reaching the window without being helped.
"Come, that was good. You are getting on nicely. Now sit down, and look
out for the soldiers. I think they are coming this way."
The boy gazed eagerly, flushing.
"I wish they were English," he said. "I wish I was in England. When
are we going home, Den? And when may I see my mamma? I do want to have
Molly again. It's ages since I saw Molly--and I want her!"
Denham was silent.
"It was stupid of me to be so glad to come away from Molly. Nothing is
half nice without her."
"I am glad you have found that out. She is a dear little sister, and
she would do anything in the world for you."
"Oh, well, of course, I know she would," assented Roy. "And I always
was fond of Molly too. She gets cross sometimes, though."
"Roy never gets cross, I suppose?"
Roy laughed rather consciously, and then gave vent to a sigh. "Oh,
dear, I don't like this chair. Not half so much as the sofa. It makes
me tired. I wish nobody ever had the small-pox. When shall I be all
right again, I wonder? I do hate being ill such a tremendously long
time."
Denham picked him up bodily, as if he had been an infant, carried him
across, and deposited him where he had been before.
"You have done about enough for one day. Oh, you will soon be well
now; no fear! And you may count yourself fortunate, not to have been
much worse. Yours has been a slight attack, compared with what many
people have."
"I don't call it slight. I call it a most beastly horrid illness. Den,
when shall we go home? I want Molly."
Denham took a seat by his side.
"I am not sure. It may not be just yet."
"Why not? I thought we were going as soon as ever we could."
"As soon as possible; yes. The question is, how soon that will be. Some
of us are not able to go yet; but I am hoping that your father will
send you home, and not let you wait for him and me."
"Why, Den?" Roy twisted round to gaze in astonishment. "Why, Den! I
thought you were all waiting, only just till I should get over this.
I didn't know there was anything else. Is there anything else? Has
something happened? Do tell me."
"You and your mother are free to go back to England, as soon as she is
willing to do so. Your father and I are not free."
"Aren't you? Why not? What is the matter with papa?"
"Nothing is the matter with him, so far as health is concerned. Only,
he is not free and I am not free. We are both prisoners."
Roy's large grey eyes grew bigger and rounder.
"Den! Why--Den--what can you mean? Prisoners! You and papa prisoners!
Why, you haven't been fighting."
"No, we have not been fighting. We ought not to be prisoners. Such
a thing has never happened before, in any war between civilised
countries. But war has been declared, as you know was expected before
you were taken ill. And one of the first things that Napoleon did,
directly war broke out, was to make all English travellers prisoners of
war."
Roy clenched his fist.
"He professes to have had provocation. There were French vessels
in our ports, and these were seized, as soon as our Ambassador had
been ordered to return home. But that was in accordance with a very
old custom--centuries old. Napoleon's act of reprisal is altogether
new. It is a thing unheard of--making war on travellers and peaceful
residents; a disgrace to himself and his nation. You know what is meant
by 'reprisals' in war. This is his 'reprisal' for the vessels seized.
Every Englishman in France, or in any country under Napoleon's sway at
this moment, is declared to be a prisoner."
"Then I'm a prisoner too."
"You are under age. Some boys of your age have been arrested, I
believe, but only because they hold His Majesty's Commission in the
Navy. Otherwise, under eighteen you are free."
"But you are not in prison."
"I am on parole. I have given my word of honour not to try to get away."
"Then you mustn't escape, even if you can?"
"No. If I had refused to give my parole, I should have been at once
sent to prison--probably have been thrown into a dungeon."
The boy was as white as a sheet.
"And papa----?"
"Has given his parole also."
"And--mamma?"
"Your mother is at liberty to go home, and your father wishes her to
do so, and to take you; but she says she will not leave him. One can
understand her feeling, and yet it is a pity. In England she would be
safer and better off. But you know how unhappy she always is, if she is
away from your father even for a few days. You, of course, will have
to be sent home soon, so as to go on with your schooling; but at first
you will join us at Fontainebleau. We hope to be all released in a very
little while. The thing is so disgraceful, that Napoleon can hardly
persevere in it--so most people say. But we shall soon see. If we are
not soon set free, your father will no doubt try to persuade your
mother to take you home."
"Where is Fontainebleau?"
"Some distance from Paris. Don't you know the name? Your father and
mother are there already, and now I have to go too. I have only been
allowed to wait for a few days, because of your illness, and I must not
put off any longer."
"Are you going soon? Will you take me?"
"Not just yet, my boy. You are hardly fit for the journey. A chill
might lay you by again; besides, other people might catch the small-pox
from you. So I have settled to leave you here a little longer, in
charge of kind Mademoiselle de St. Roques. She and Monsieur and Madame
de Bertrand will see well after you."
Roy looked very doleful.
"When are you going?"
"I am afraid--to-morrow. But for that I would not have told you quite
so soon. But you will keep up a brave heart. You are a soldier's son,
you know, so you mustn't give in."
Roy's face worked.
"I don't want you to go," he said. "That horrid old beast of a
Napoleon; I wish somebody or other would guillotine him--that I do! He
deserves it richly! Must you go?"
"I'm afraid I have no choice. The gendarmes have been looking me
up; and if I put off any longer I shall get into trouble with those
gentlemen. I'm bound to report myself at Fontainebleau before the
evening of the day after to-morrow. But you will soon come after me.
Why--Roy!"
"I can't help it. It's so horrid," sobbed Roy, direfully ashamed of
himself. "I--don't like you to go. I don't like you and papa to be
prisoners. And oh--poor little Molly! What will she do! Den, why does
God let such wicked men be in the world? I wouldn't. I'd kill them
right off."
"One can't always see the reason. Some good reason there must be."
"I don't know how there can be! It's all as horrid as horrid, and
everything is miserable!" The boy rubbed his coat-sleeve across his
eyes, only to burst out sobbing afresh. "I can't help it," he gasped.
"Oh, please don't ever tell Molly."
"No, I will not. But Molly would understand. It is only that you are
pulled down and weak. In a few days you will not feel inclined to cry.
Never mind, Roy, things will be better by-and-by. You see, you and I
can't help what Buonaparte does. He has to answer for himself. You and
I have only to see that we do _our_ part in life bravely and rightly
and truly. This is rather hard to bear, but it has to be borne, and we
must try and be cheery for the sake of other people. Don't you see?"
Something in the young man's voice made Roy ask, "Do you mind very,
very much?"
"What do you think? Wouldn't you mind in my place? Roy--if you have
Molly at home, I have--Polly!"
"Oh, it's just perfectly horrid!" sobbed Roy. "It's just as beastly as
it can be!"
* * * * *
Roy had good reason to talk of "poor little Molly." Molly's state
of mind during many days bordered on despair--so far as despair is
possible to a healthy child. The very idea that weeks and months might
pass before she could again see her beloved twin-brother was too
dreadful.
"Roy will be sent home, of course. It is out of the question that he
should be allowed to stay in France. Think of the boy's education,"
Mrs. Fairbank said repeatedly. But others were not so sure.
There is much variety in the different accounts given at the time, as
to the number of English subjects who actually suffered arrest. Some
estimates amount to as high a figure as ten thousand, but these appear
to make no allowance for the rapid homeward rush just at the last. This
assertion may be found in Sir Walter Scott's writings, which does not
settle the matter, since strict accuracy was not his peculiar gift.
Other estimates give only a few hundreds as the number detained, most
of them belonging to upper ranks in society.
A burning outburst of indignation took place throughout England, and
the newspapers vied one with another in wrathful condemnation of the
"unmannerly violation of the laws of hospitality."
One serious complication of affairs, which perhaps had not been
foreseen by the First Consul, when he took this step, was a deadlock in
the exchange of prisoners, usual in war between civilised nations.
It was impossible for the English Government to recognise that men so
unjustly seized were lawful prisoners of war, by consenting to release,
in exchange for them, French prisoners lawfully taken. Indeed, from
that date exchange practically ceased altogether; English prisoners
having to languish in France, and French prisoners having to languish
in England, without this hope of gaining their freedom before the close
of the war. Some few exceptions were made in later years, but not many.
After a time an attempt was made by the body of détenus
themselves--this being the name that they were known by, in
distinction from regular and lawfully-made prisoners--to obtain their
release. They sent a carefully-worded petition to the French Minister
of War, entreating to be set free, and offering, if their petition
were granted, to pay out of their own pockets the value of those
vessels which had been first seized by the English, as well as to do
their utmost to obtain the release of the French sailors who had been
on board those vessels. This request was flatly refused. The French
Minister, in his reply, plainly declared that the English had not been
detained merely on account of those captured vessels, as was stated in
Napoleon's manifesto, but for other reasons as well.
War, once begun, was carried on with energy by both the English and
the French. Napoleon marched his troops about Europe, as it pleased
him, meeting with little or no resistance. Germany, Austria, and other
nations, all meekly and tamely submitted; the only continental power
which had the pluck to offer even a faint resistance at that date being
little Denmark. Great Britain alone faced the usurper with a scornful
and fearless determination; and the most ardent desire of Napoleon's
heart was to crush the haughty island, which would have none of his
pretensions, and which refused to bow before him.
As a first step, he did his best to damage English commerce, by closing
continental markets against her--supremely careless of the suffering
which, by this move, he inflicted on his own friends and subjects. But
at this particular game England was the better hand of the two. At
that time ironclads were unknown; and though the great three-deckers,
with their fifty or seventy guns a-piece, could not be built in a day,
yet war vessels were of every description, from such three-deckers
down to merchant ships, hastily fitted with a few guns, and sent forth
to do their best. In a short time England had about five hundred war
vessels of divers kinds, large or small, with which she swept the seas,
recaptured such colonies as had been yielded to France by the Treaty of
Amiens, blockaded harbours in countries subject to the First Consul,
and made descents upon French ports, carrying off prizes in the very
teeth of French guns and fortifications.
Napoleon's next move was definitely to announce his intention of
invading England, of conquering the country, and of making it into a
province of France--a feat more easily talked of than accomplished. But
preparations for this scheme were pushed forward on a great scale. Huge
flotillas of flat-bottomed boats, to act as transport for the invading
army, were collected at various places, more especially at Boulogne;
and at the latter spot a camp was formed of about one hundred thousand
soldiers, to be in readiness for the moment of action. Also a fleet of
French men-of-war was being prepared to convoy the flat-bottomed boats
full of soldiers across the Channel.
(_To be continued._)
HENRY PURCELL:
THE PIONEER OF ENGLISH OPERA.
BY ELEONORE D'ESTERRE-KEELING.
On the 25th of November, 1680, there appeared in the columns of the
_London Gazette_ the following announcement:--
"Josias Priest, who kept a boarding-school of gentlewomen in Leicester
Fields, is removed to the great schoolhouse at Chelsey that was Mr.
Portman's. There will continue the same masters and others to the
improvement of the said school."
Leicester Fields was in 1680 the name of that part of London now
known as Leicester Square, and the removal of their school from this
central position to the village of Chelsea, at two miles distance,
must have made a considerable difference in the lives of the young
gentlewomen who had been confided to the care of Mr. Josias Priest. But
preparations were just then being made for a great event, and the wily
dominie doubtless knew what he was about when he chose the drear month
of November for his flitting.
In the great schoolhouse which had been Mr. Portman's there was to be
such a Christmas "break-up" as had never been known, and the young
gentlewomen of Mr. Priest's establishment had no leisure to lament
the gaieties of London life, for their thoughts were fully occupied
by the practising of their music and their steps, not to mention such
frivolous matters as the trying-on of fancy costumes and the twisting
of bright English tresses into the coils which should surmount the
dainty heads of maids and matrons of classic Carthage.
The new Chelsea school-master was nothing if not ambitious, and no less
a thing would satisfy him than the performance of an original opera
by the young gentlewomen of his establishment. To realise the full
extent of this ambition one must remember that up to this time (1680)
opera was unknown in England. The first opera ever written was Peri's
_Dafne_, and this had been privately performed in Florence in 1597.
The same composer's second opera, _Eurydice_, was the first work of
the kind to receive public support, it being performed in 1600, also
at Florence. Opera now slowly found its way across Europe, reaching
Germany in 1627, when Heinrich Schutz's _Dafne_ was given at Torgau;
and arriving at Paris in 1659, in which year _La Pastorale_, by Robert
Cambert, was sung before a public audience. From this time it made
rapid strides in the French capital, and Lully's operatic compositions
were regarded as masterpieces. England, however, still hung back, not
because there was any lack of excellent musicians in the country, but
because the sympathy and encouragement which are necessary to the
advancement of any art were not forthcoming.
Under the stern rule of the Puritans, music had been rigorously
suppressed, and the compositions of our older masters, existing only
in precious manuscripts, had been torn up and trampled under foot. The
destruction of singing-books was so complete that very few specimens
of pre-Commonwealth music now exist, and to add to the general ruin,
valuable organs were broken up, the one in Westminster Abbey itself
being pulled to pieces and its pipes pawned at the ale-houses for pots
of ale.
[Illustration: HENRY PURCELL.]
Although the work of destruction was being thus drastically carried
out by Cromwell's soldiers, the Protector was not himself without a
strong love for music, and one of the acts for which musicians owe him
gratitude was his rescue of the organ in Magdalen College, Oxford. This
beautiful instrument he had privately brought to Hampton Court and
placed there in the great gallery, in order that he might listen to the
music played on it by his secretary, the poet Milton. After Cromwell's
death it was returned to Magdalen College, but eventually it was sold,
and it now stands in Tewkesbury Abbey.
The year of Cromwell's death (1658) witnessed the birth of England's
greatest composer. In a small back street of Westminster, St. Ann's
Lane, Old Pye Street, there was living at this time a clever musician
called Henry Purcell. At the Restoration he was made Gentleman of the
Chapel Royal, and in this capacity he sang at the coronation of Charles
II., when, in order to do honour to the occasion, he, in common with
his colleagues, received "four yards of fine scarlet cloth to be made
into a gown." He was also elected singing-man of Westminster Abbey,
and Master of the Chorister Boys, as well as music-copyist. This last
was deemed a very honourable position, and owing to the wholesale
destruction of church music-books during the Commonwealth, it was no
sinecure; for it must be remembered that in those days there were
no cheap editions of printed music, and every composition had to be
laboriously transcribed by hand, printed copies being very rare and
expensive.
Little is known of the private life of Henry Purcell, senior, beyond
the fact that his wife's name was Elizabeth, and that he was the father
of the greater Henry Purcell, the child whose birth occurred in the
very year in which his father's fortunes began to look up; and in
which, by the accession of Charles II., there was given to music an
impetus that was significantly foreshadowed by the advent of England's
greatest musician.
Beneath the grey walls of Westminster Abbey little Henry passed the
first years of his life, the sounds of music constantly in his ears
and in his heart, and so well had his sweet baby voice been trained
that, at the death of his father, when he was but six years old, he
was admitted as a chorister of the Chapel Royal. His father's brother
Thomas, also a gifted musician, henceforth took care of the boy and
superintended his education with watchful tenderness. His teacher
at this time was Captain Cooke, an old man, who had belonged to the
chapel of Charles I., and who, on the breaking out of civil war, had
turned soldier and fought on the Royalist side. He had won a captain's
commission, and now, as a reward for his loyalty, he was appointed by
Charles II. Master of the Children of the Royal Chapel. Many of the
anthems composed by Purcell, and still in use in our cathedrals, date
from this time, and he was only twelve years old when he wrote the ode
which he called "The Address of the Children of the Chapel Royal to
the King and their Master, Captain Cooke, on his Majesties Birthday,
A.D. 1670, composed by Master Purcell, one of the Children of the said
Chapel."
At sixteen our composer became a pupil of the famous Dr. John Blow, one
of the greatest musicians of this time; and now his genius developed
with marvellous rapidity.
Amongst the minor canons of Canterbury Cathedral, there was one John
Gostling, the fortunate possessor of a bass voice of extraordinary
compass. This man was a great favourite with Charles II., and on one
occasion the King, having arranged a pleasure trip in his new yacht,
_The Fubbs_, round the Kentish coast, desired Gostling to join the
party "in order to keep up the mirth and good-humour of the company."
The boat had not gone very far when a terrible storm arose, and the
danger became so imminent that the King and the Duke of York had to
work like common sailors to help keep the vessel afloat. They escaped,
but the impression made on Gostling was so profound that on his return
to London he selected those passages from the Psalms which declare the
wonders and terrors of the deep, and gave them to his young friend
Purcell to compose, the wonderful anthem "They that go down to the sea
in ships" being the result.
It was with reference to this singer that Charles II. made the _bon
mot_, "You may talk as much as you please of your nightingales, but I
have a gosling who excels them all!"
In 1680 Dr. Blow resigned his position as organist of Westminster Abbey
in favour of his young pupil, and thus at twenty-two years of age, we
find Purcell in possession of the most important musical appointment in
the kingdom. His fame was already secure, but this year was to put the
crown on all his former achievements, and this crown was to be twined
for him by English school-girls.
[Illustration:
Here lyes
HENRY PURCELL Esqr
Who left this Life,
And is gone to that Blessed Place
Where only his Harmony
can be exceeded.
Obijt 21^{mo} die Novembrs
Anno Ætatis suæ 37^{mo}
Annoq Domini 1695
]
In this year Mr. Josias Priest moved his school for young gentlewomen
to Chelsea. In this year also he conceived the bold idea of an English
opera, and having chosen his subject, the classic history of Dido
and Æneas, he had commissioned Nahum Tate, a native of Dublin, who
was already known as co-author (with Nicholas Brady) of the metrical
version of the Psalms, to prepare the book. The brilliant young
organist of Westminster Abbey was engaged to compose the music, and so
heartily did he throw himself into the work that an opera was produced
which could measure itself against the best existing productions of
Italy, France, or Germany.
[Illustration: Purcell's House]
That the music should have been so surpassingly beautiful is the more
surprising when we remember the limitations imposed upon its creator.
With the exception of the part of Æneas, which was given to a tenor,
all the parts were written in the G, or treble, clef as being the
easiest for young gentlewomen; and the orchestral accompaniments were
confined to two violins, a viola, bass, and harpsichord.
The composer himself played the harpsichord parts on this first
occasion, and the audience seems to have consisted, as is usual in
such cases, of the parents and friends of the young performers. The
entertainment was pronounced an unqualified success, and it would
indeed have been a crabbed auditor who could have remained unmoved
while Queen Dido confided the story of her love to her trusty Belinda,
or listened to the protestations of the faithless Æneas. Bands of
shepherds and shepherdesses, enchanters and sorceresses, varied the
solo parts with choral song and dance, and towards the close came that
incomparable death-song, the exquisite pathos and beauty of which still
strike home to every listener. "Remember me," sings the forsaken and
dying queen to her faithful Belinda, "but oh, forget my fate!"
Mr. Fuller Maitland says in connection with this song:--
"It is an inspiration that has never been surpassed for pathos and
direct emotional appeal. It was this directness of expression rather
than his erudition that raised Purcell to that supreme place among
English composers which has never been disputed. The very quality of
broad choral effect which has been most admired in Händel's work was
that in which Purcell most clearly anticipated him. In actual melodic
beauty Purcell's airs are at least on a level with Händel's."
At the close of the performance, the Lady Dorothy Burk, one of the
young gentlewomen of Mr. Josias Priest's school, recited an epilogue,
written for her by Thomas D'Urfey. It is too long to quote entire, but
the following extracts from it may interest our girls of to-day.
"All that we know the Angels do above,
I've read, is that they Sing and that they Love.
The Vocal part we have to-night perform'd:
And if by Love our Hearts not yet are warm'd,
Great Providence has still more bounteous been
To save us from those grand Deceivers, Men.
Here blest with Innocence, and peace of Mind,
Not only bred to Virtue, but inclin'd;
We flourish and defie all human kind.
* * * * *
We hope to please, but if some Critick here.
Fond of his Wit, designs to be severe,
Let not his Patience be worn out too soon,
And in few years we shall be all in Tune."
_Dido and Æneas_ was not printed until 1840, and even then it was but
an imperfect version of the opera that was given to the world. Since
1895--the bi-centenary of the composer's death--the Purcell Society has
been issuing a complete edition of the works of the "English Orpheus,"
and _Dido and Æneas_ has now at last come into its right. During
Purcell's lifetime opera was not held in high favour in this country,
a fact which is significantly proved by the circumstance that _Dido
and Æneas_ had no successor. In the _Gentleman's Journal_ for January,
1691-92, we find this quaint statement: "Experience hath taught us
that our English genius will not rellish this perpetuall singing."
Henceforward our first opera composer confined himself to incidental
music introduced into spoken drama. A poor perversion of _The Tempest_,
by Shadwell, was honoured far too highly by being set to music by
him, and only those parts of the music which were associated with
Shakespeare's words, such as, "Come unto these yellow sands," and "Full
fathom five," have survived.
An adaptation of Beaumont and Fletcher's _Dioclesian_ has fared no
better, but it attained the honour of print during its composer's
lifetime. It was dedicated to the Duke of Somerset, and was accompanied
by an address to his Grace containing the following passage, which is
of interest to us to-day, as showing the respective positions of the
sister arts at the close of the 17th century.
"Music and Poetry have ever been acknowledged Sisters, which, walking
hand in hand, support each other; As Poetry is the harmony of Words,
so Musick is that of Notes; and, as Poetry is a Rise above Prose and
Oratory, so is Musick the exaltation of Poetry. Both of them may
excel apart, but sure they are most excellent when they are joyn'd,
because nothing is then wanting to either of their Perfections: for
thus they appear like Wit and Beauty in the same Person. Poetry and
Painting have arriv'd to their perfection in our own Country. Musick
is yet but in its Nonage, a forward Child which gives hope of what it
may be hereafter in England when the Masters of it shall find more
Encouragement. 'Tis now learning _Italian_, which is its best Master,
and studying a little of the French Air, to give it somewhat more of
Gayety and Fashion."
_Dioclesian_, backed by the Duke of Somerset, was successful. It was
performed in 1690, and was said to have "gratify'd the expectation of
Court and City, and got the author great reputation."
In the following year Purcell wrote the music to _King Arthur_, the
work which, next to _Dido and Æneas_, holds the highest rank amongst
his secular compositions. The drama had been written by Dryden, but
the entire plot had to be so changed, owing to the altered political
situation, that the poet, in his preface, after lamenting the
destruction of his verse, goes on to say--
"There is nothing better than what I intended than the Musick; which
has since arriv'd to a greater perfection in England than ever
formerly; especially passing through the artful hands of Mr. Purcell,
who has compos'd it with so great a genius, that he has nothing to fear
but an ignorant, ill-judging audience."
The immediate success of _King Arthur_ seems to have been great, though
it did not long hold the stage. The time for works of this kind was not
yet come; in 1770 it was revived at Drury Lane, with a considerable
access of popularity. Since that time it has been heard at tolerably
frequent intervals, and a masterly performance was given under the
direction of Dr. Hans Richter at the Birmingham Festival in October,
1897.
Though Purcell's life only extended over thirty-seven years, he had
the composition of odes, on various occasions, for no less than three
English sovereigns. In addition to his numerous contributions in honour
of Charles II., some of which have been noted here, he wrote for the
coronation of James II. the two splendid anthems, "I was glad," and
"My Heart is inditing." He also wrote for James an ode beginning,
"Why are all the muses mute?" There seems to be something of irony
in the fact that he should likewise have been the author of a melody
which, according to contemporary writers, did more than anything else
to "chase James II. from his three kingdoms," but though Purcell
certainly wrote the music ultimately sung to _Lilliburlero_, it is no
less true that he had no knowledge of the use to which his melody would
be put. Amongst his minor compositions of this time were a march and
a quickstep, and the Irish Viceroy, Lord Wharton, was discriminating
enough to recognise that the tune of the latter, wedded to words by
himself, in which the king and the Papists were held up to derision,
would have an extraordinary effect upon the masses of the people.
The event proved that he was right. According to Bishop Burnet, "the
impression made on the army was one that cannot be imagined by one that
saw it not. The whole army, and at last the people, both in city and
country, were singing it perpetually, and perhaps never had so slight a
thing so great an effect."
The tune is a bright, gay one, and is now put to a harmless use by
being sung to the nursery rhyme--
"There was an old woman went up in a blanket,
Seventeen times as high as the moon."
It is also sung by young girls in the south and south-east of Ireland,
while reaping in the fields, to the words--
"Lully by lero,
Help her along,"
and usually has reference to one of their number who is less nimble
than her companions.
James having fled, it was next Purcell's duty to compose an ode in
commemoration of the accession of William and Mary. This was performed
at the Merchant Taylor's Hall, at a gathering of Yorkshiremen, for
which reason it is now known as the "Yorkshire Feast Song."
He wrote odes to St. Cecilia, which were used at the festival of St.
Cecilia's Day for several years, the finest of them being the last, the
magnificent Te Deum and Jubilate, written in 1694. It was the first
work of this kind that had ever been heard in England, and from the
date of its composition till 1713 it was performed regularly every
year. Then Händel's great Te Deum and Jubilate for the Peace of Utrecht
was composed, and was performed alternately with the work of the
English musician until 1734, when Händel's Dettingen Te Deum displaced
both its predecessors.
In December, 1694, Queen Mary died, and Purcell composed the music
for her funeral. There were two new anthems, "Blessed is the man
that feareth the Lord," and "Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our
hearts." We have the testimony of one who was present in the choir on
this solemn occasion as to the effect produced by the noble music.
"I appeal to all that were present," says this authority, "as well
such as understood music, as those that did not, whether they ever
heard anything so rapturously fine and solemn, and so heavenly in
the operation, which drew tears from all, and yet a plain, natural
composition, which shows the power of music, when 'tis rightly fitted
and adapted to devotional purposes."
The second anthem, "Thou knowest, Lord," has been sung at every choral
funeral in Westminster Abbey and St. Paul's from that day to this,
for Dr. Croft, who set the Burial Service to music, abstained from
setting these words, declaring that the music left by Purcell was
unapproachable.
Only a few months after Queen Mary's death the composer also passed
away to "that place where alone his harmony could be excelled," and the
solemn strains of the anthem but lately written for the dead Queen were
sung by his friends and colleagues as they laid the loved master to his
rest beneath the shadow of that organ on which he had so often played.
Dr. Blow, who had stood aside to let the younger musician take his
place, now resumed his appointment as organist of Westminster Abbey;
and, facing the memorial tablet raised there to Henry Purcell, we may
see one placed to the memory of Blow, recording, amongst other tributes
to his mind and heart, that he was "the master of the famous Mr. Henry
Purcell."
A collection of "Choice Pieces for the Harpsichord," by Purcell, was
published by his widow after his death, as well as two books of songs
called _Orpheus Britannicus_. Prefixed to the second of these volumes
is an ode from which, in conclusion, I give a short extract.
"Make room, ye happy Natives of the Sky,
Room for a Soul--all Love and Harmony;
A Soul that rose to such Perfection here,
It scarce will be advanced by being there.
* * * * *
Ah, most unworthy! shou'd we leave unsung
Such wondrous Goodness in a Life so young.
In spight of Practice, he this Truth has shown,
That Harmony and Vertue shou'd be one.
So true to Nature, and so just to Wit,
His Music was the very Sense you Writ.
Nor were his Beauties to his Art confin'd;
So justly were his Soul and Body join'd,
You'd think his Form the Product of his Mind."
[Illustration]
WORDS TO THE WISE OR OTHERWISE.
BY "MEDICUS" (DR. GORDON STABLES, M.D., R.N.).
The sunsets at Nairn, N.B., are often beautiful in the extreme. Last
night, however, was probably an exception, for the sun gave just one
yellow uncertain glare across the wind-chafed waves, then sank behind
a bank of sulphureous-looking clouds. Darkness came on a whole hour
before its time, and though an almost full moon was in the sky, the
rolling cumulus eclipsed it. And such awful cumulus I have never seen
before; so black, so beast-like in shape. To gaze up into the heavens
was like catching a glimpse of some scenes in Dante's _Inferno_.
Then high and higher rose the wind, howling and "howthering" from off
the stormy Nor' lan' sea. Although my caravan is well anchored down in
the wide green meadow in which I lie, she pulled and dragged at her
hawsers, and swung and rolled like a ship in the chops of the Channel.
But a wild wind and a van that rocks, bring sweetest slumbers to the
brain of the poor wandering gipsy, and it was well-nigh six this
morning before I opened my lazy eyes.
The sea out yonder is an ocean of blue ink flecked with snow-white
foam; for the storm still blows, though less fiercely. Beyond the Moray
Frith sunshine and shadow are playing at hide-and-seek, and so bright
are the colours of woodland and fields, their deep dark greens, their
yellows and the touches of crimson on the beetling cliffs, that they
bring vividly to my recollection the awful pictures I used to paint
when a boy of eight or nine.
It is already well on in the fa' o' the year, and I am still 700 miles
from my English home. But there is a sting in the air now, both morn
and even, which sharply touches up one's kilted knees. Wonderfully
bracing, however; there is health in every breeze, and I believe my
girl-readers, who happen to possess anything having the slightest
resemblance to a constitution, should go out for exercise in all
weathers.
And now let me give a few hints in paragraphs, which I feel certain
will appeal to many of my readers.
UNNATURAL DEFORMITIES.
By this I mean those which are not congenital, such as club-foot, for
instance; deformities, in fact, that girls bring on themselves. I will
go down as low as the feet first. Well, it is, of course, greatly to
be deplored that Providence did not give you feet to fit your shoes;
but really, to compress the feet means perpetual discomfort and danger.
Cases of headaches and extreme nervousness may often be traced to
the wearing of tightly-fitting boots or shoes. Pimples or acne, red
nose, dyspepsia and varicose veins may also be produced through the
same cause. Nearly all deformities of the feet can now be removed by
surgical appliances. Flat foot, or want of arch, is one of these. It is
not only remediable, but it _should be_ remedied.
The toes ought to have play in a shoe, else girls can never walk, or
dance, or play tennis, or golf gracefully. God never meant your foot to
be all one solid lump squeezed into a shoe three sizes too small for
you, or depend upon it He never would have given you toes.
Corns will not form--whether hard or soft--on the foot that wears a
nice smooth stocking and an easy-fitting boot. The nails should be
attended to every morning or evening after the bath, and ought to be
cut square off, and not down the sides, else the consequence may be an
in-growing nail and painful ulceration.
Never sit long with your legs crossed one over the other. It
interferes greatly with the circulation, and may cause varicose veins.
Bent spine.--This is preventible in many ways. When writing, reading
or typing do not lean forward; sit erect, and keep even the neck
straight. Throw the shoulders well back, and thus will you expand chest
and lungs. The same rule holds good if cycling. All kinds of exercises
should be taken that tend to develop the muscles of the chest and give
plenty of room for heart and lungs. Tight-lacing causes shocking and
dangerous deformity, displacing all the internal organs and interfering
with their work, so that your tight-laced girls are at best but hanging
to life by the eyelashes, and the man who marries such a one is no
better than a fool.
PURE BLOOD.
Blood purifiers sold in shops are one of the swindles of the age, and
the time is not far distant, I hope, when quackery will be banished
entirely from the British Isles. Meanwhile beware of everything you see
on a chemist's counter that bears a government three-halfpenny stamp.
You cannot be happy, it is true, if the blood be impure, and moreover,
while it is so you are far more liable to catch colds and coughs and
any ailment that may be epidemic, such as influenza.
RULES FOR KEEPING THE BLOOD PURE.
1. Never eat to repletion. If you eat slowly you will not do so.
2. Avoid too much sugar and pastry, especially if you have a slight
leaning towards _embonpoint_. The lean may use sugar, but not the
round-faced and obese.
3. Good ripe fruit before breakfast.
4. The morning bath to keep the skin pores open, and thus reduce the
work of the internal excreting organs.
5. A large tumblerful of hot water with a squeeze of lemon in it, after
the bath.
6. No tea in the morning, but coffee, cocoa, or hot milk.
7. Eat slowly, masticate well. Never get into an exciting argument at
table.
8. Be regular in all your habits, and sleep with your windows open.
Thus shalt thy blood be pure.
THE EYES.
Now that the nights are getting long, and we have to read by
lamp-light, by electric, or gas-light, a word about the eyes may be
opportune. Don't therefore try or tire your eyes too much. Read in a
good light. Remember that tiring the eyes means tiring the brain, for
the nerves of sight issue therefrom. Students should frequently bathe
brow and eyes in the coldest of water, and rest awhile on the sofa with
a newspaper over the face.
Eyes and health go hand in hand, and if your liver or stomach be out of
order, the eyesight will become more or less dim for a time. It is most
important therefore that girls engaged in study, or who do office work,
should make a point of keeping their health well up to the mark.
CYCLING FOR YOUNG GIRLS.
Cycling is revolutionising the kingdom, partly for good, partly, alas!
for harm. But I want to warn parents against permitting children of too
tender years to cycle. Remember I myself might be called a cyclomaniac.
Many is the article and many the book I have written on this charming
method of pedal progression, but I never have been a scorcher.
I say, and fear no contradiction, that no girl should be permitted to
mount a bike, until she is eleven or twelve years of age, and even
then she must ride in moderation. Else years and years of ill-health
and trouble are in store for her in after-life. Children should be
taken good care of when out cycling, and those with them should ride in
moderation, else the child will kill herself in trying to keep up.
The same may be said about club-cycling for young men. Just as there is
always a tiny wee "drochy" in a litter of pigs, so in a club out for
a spin there is always one or more poor white-faced visions of lads
that a Chinaman could whip, and it is pitiful to gaze on their weazened
white bits of perspiring faces as they bend over their bars and try
to keep up. Such brats often smoke too. Alas! alas! but there is one
consolation, they soon sink into their morsels of graves, and the world
wags better without them.
POVERTY OF BLOOD.
This is usually called "Anæmia." The words of a fellow-practitioner in
a recently published medical journal are so good that I make no apology
for transcribing them for your benefit.
"It is doubtful, in my mind, whether the average doctor realises the
frequency of anæmia. I am sure that if the general practitioner gave
due attention to the factor anæmia, we should have comparatively few
cases of disease extending into the chronic stage. Too few physicians
are accustomed to take into account all the elements of every case,
including this, the most prevalent and essential of all. Any disease
that depletes the system and draws largely on the vital forces will
involve the condition we call anæmia. On all such occasions, it is of
the first importance for the doctor to be constantly on the look-out
for this condition. The best means of diagnosis is microscopic
examination of the blood, to determine its quality from the number of
red corpuscles and the proportion of hæmaglobin, and also as to its
freedom from bacteria.
"As to the treatment of anæmia, blood, in my opinion, is undoubtedly
the only agent that can absolutely restore the normal condition of
blood. Iron has long been the favourite remedy with the profession for
the treatment of anæmia. But a careful study of clinical cases, and
careful perusal of the opinions of the most intelligent medical men,
will elicit the fact that this remedy will not all the time produce
the most satisfactory results. In fact, the majority of physicians
will tell you that iron will act favourably up to a certain point
only. Why is this? It is because iron preparations are not readily
absorbed, and because they can only stimulate cell proliferation, but
cannot help the deficient nutrition of the proliferating cells. It is
for this reason that, as much clinical experience has proved to me and
many others, patients put on iron and other so-called blood tonics
seldom make any permanent improvement. The agent that brings results
clinically is one that not only causes rapid cell proliferation, but
supplies the new-born cells with direct nutrition, thereby causing them
to proliferate in turn; thus finally restoring the blood to the normal
standard."
Well, _au revoir_, girls, till we meet in bleak December. And just
let me thank the G. O. P. lasses who visited my caravan this year in
Scotland, and brought me smiles and pretty flowers.
[Illustration: THE NEW SOPRANO.]
ORPHEUS.
BY "A. N."
Behold! to thy harp of gold the green wave leaps, and to thee
Smiting the sounding chords on the topmost cliffs of the sea,
Aphrodite ascends in a rose of the foam of the deep,
The curl of whose petals is white, but whose heart is purple as sleep,
And the gods are glad in heart, and the warrior waxeth strong,
And love blooms out as a perfumed flower at the voice of thy song.
She, the goddess of sea-foam, moved to thee--she, thrice fair,
And Eurydice thy queen and love of the dusky hair,
Who, thro' the bowers of summer in all the Arcadian groves
Wandered and wanders for ever, and loved and for ever loves.
For she of the floral meadows could never remain below
Pent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.
The nightingale panted and paused to hark in the groves by night,
And the choral lark dropped down in the flush of the sun-dawn's light,
And the red wine lay in the golden cups at the princes' feast--
Yet their faces were bright as though they had drunken--when thy song ceased.
And the souls of all went out to thee as a deep sea wave,
Till Apollo looked down and envied the mellow gift he gave.
Then a snake of enamelled skin with eyes like jewels of fire,
Who oft had waved his dagger-head to the voice of thy lyre,
Stung thy queen, as she roved thro' the lovely Arcadian bowers,
In the snowy arm bent down to gather the purple flowers;
Yet she of the floral meadows could never remain below
Pent in the body, but is as a spirit wherever the violets blow.
What song then rolled from thy harp of gold to the pitiless sky
When this thou knewest--that Eurydice thy love could die?
The might of the cold green sea-waves shuddered: they held their breath
And the trees were still, when thy deep song rang thro' the realms of death,
And rushed along the gloom illimitable giving light,
As a world that moves in music over the vault of night.
So the tearful melody grateful as dew in summer fell,
Till the pangs of the damned were assuaged in the uttermost reaches of hell,
Thro' awful chasms and strait clefts cut in the ponderous rocks
O'er plains where echo from hills unseen the loud lyre mocks,
It sped over all the rivers of darkness and places of moan,
Till it rolled like an ocean of gold round the Death King's ebony throne.
[Illustration]
FATHER ANTHONY.
BY SOMERVILLE GIBNEY.