the mood would presently pass away if properly ignored, and no mention
was made in his hearing of the subject that lay nearest his heart. The
girl, however, realized that Georg was seriously unhappy, and right
heartily did she try to divert him from his consuming desire.
One November afternoon, as Georg sat studying before the sitting-room
fire with his mother, who had fallen asleep over her knitting, his
attention was attracted by a pebble being thrown against the window.
Raising his eyes, he beheld his aunt beckoning to him from the garden.
Down went the book and out went the boy.
"What is it, Aunt Anna?"
For answer, the girl caught him about the neck and whirled him madly up
and down the gravelled path.
"It's a secret, Georg, the best and biggest secret in the whole world.
Nobody is to know it but you and me, and it is so lovely that I can't
keep from spinning like a top!"
"Wait! Stop! Let loose!" and the boy broke from her clasp,
half-strangled by the joyful energy of her arm. "What is the secret?
Hurry and tell!"
The girl stood smiling and speechless, unable to find words to frame her
tidings. Then glancing about to assure herself that no one was near, she
bent quickly and whispered,--
"You remember, Georg, that poor Granny Wegler died last week. Well, her
daughter, Mrs. Friesland, who came from Munich to take care of her,
called here to-day to tell me--what do you suppose?"
"I don't know."
"She said that she had found a note written by Granny, saying that when
she died, she wanted to leave her _clavichord_ to me. Just think of it,
Georg, I am to have that dear, beautiful little clavichord that stood in
Granny's parlor, and you and I can play on it whenever we please!"
Georg's face went from red to white and back to red again with this
stupendous news. Afraid that a shout would serve to recall him to house
and book, he sought to express his delight by rolling over and over in
the crackling brown grass and pulling up the dead blades by handfuls.
Suddenly, however, he ceased his tumbling about, and sat up, his hair
filled with bits of leaves and grass.
"Ought I to play on it, Aunt Anna? Will father care?"
Georg's voice shook with apprehension, but the girl hastened to reassure
him.
"When your father made you give away the toys, he never said a word
about clavichords. It can't be wrong to play on it when you never have
been forbidden."
Anna's idea of obedience was very strict, and in the present case she
was wholly sincere, never doubting for an instant that they were about
to proceed in the straight path of duty.
"Oh, no," murmured the boy, much relieved, "he didn't mention
clavichords, I'm sure."
"Now this is to be a secret of yours and mine, and while the others are
gone to the Kirmess to-morrow, I shall have the darling brought over and
carried up to the garret."
"Ho, ho! Hurrah for our secret! Hurrah! hurrah!"
When, next day, Georg saw the clavichord borne to the shadowy chamber
under the eaves and set up in all its thrilling reality against the warm
brick chimney, he pressed both hands over his mouth in the fear that his
cries of exultation might reach his father's ears in town.
When the carriers were gone, he approached the instrument timidly, and
only after Anna had played several tunes, could he be induced to touch
its yellowed keys. But when he had once overcome the awe that filled
him at sight of his heart's desire, he clung to it as a thing of life,
passing every hour thereafter that he could snatch from his school
studies, in the company of this glorious toy. In the beginning, Anna
taught him the few rudiments of musical art that lay within her ken, but
before many weeks had passed, the pupil turned teacher, so far
outstripping his aunt that he was able to give her many helpful
suggestions.
That Georg speedily recovered his vaulting spirits, every one remarked;
but none guessed the reason. The good surgeon supposed that the boy's
regret for his lost playthings and companions was forgotten, and he
smiled to see his son as noisy and mischief-loving as before the
September episode.
The conspirators were for a time in terror of discovery, but the tones
of the clavichord were so thin and muffled that their tinkling would
never disturb a drowsy garret mouse, much less penetrate the oaken
floors to the chambers under foot. No one but Georg's mother ever
visited the attic region, and during this important season, she chanced
to be afflicted with acute rheumatic pain that prevented her climbing
the steep stair leading to the treasure-house.
The winter was a long one and cold, but Anna and Georg, in their high
retreat, were as happy and comfortable as meadow-larks. Trunks, chests,
old clothing, and discarded furniture abounded there; bunches of dried
herbs were strung to the cross-beams, and cobwebs draped the outlying
nooks; but the great chimney emitted a cosy warmth, and the clavichord
provided unceasing entertainment.
[Illustration: "The clavichord provided unceasing entertainment."]
As time went by, Anna's interest waned considerably, owing to the
succeeding preparations of Christmas gifts, March birthday festivities,
and spring finery; but when months had rolled away and summer suns were
once more ripening the fruit and coloring the flowers, Georg was as
intently absorbed in the clavichord as on the day of its first
appearance.
One June morning he was starting for a day's visit with some cousins who
lived on the most fashionable street in Halle. He was attired for the
occasion in his best suit of shining black satin. A deep collar of
Mechlin lace, a pair of gleaming silver shoe-buckles, and a silver cord
wound around his broad black beaver filled him with satisfaction as he
emerged from the house door.
At this juncture Mr. Händel drove into the gravelled plaza lying between
stable and street, and Georg observed with surprise that the carriage
was festooned with yellow streamers, that Mummer, the staid mare, was
groomed until she shone, and tricked out in the yellow harness and
tassels reserved for state occasions.
"Where are you going, father?" called Georg.
"To Weisenfels. The duke sent for me this morning. He wishes a report
of the state of health in Halle."
"Oh, father, please take me with you! I've never seen the court, and I
want to go so much!"
"Not this time, Georg. I have business to attend to, and I cannot look
after you."
"You needn't look after me," insisted the lad, laying his hand upon the
door of the slowly moving vehicle. "I'll be good and do everything you
say, and Christian will take care of me. Please, father, take me!"
"No, no! Some other time I'll take you, but this time I shall be too
busy. Get up, Mummer!"
With the touch of the whip, the ancient mare broke into a gentle
dogtrot, the only gait more swift than a walk in which she ever
indulged.
Georg saw the carriage roll through the gates and take the road toward
Weisenfels.
To go to the duke's court was something that he had long desired, and
this seemed a wholly favorable time for the undertaking. Had his
father's denial been decisive, Georg would have accepted it with the
best grace he could muster, and gone on about his visit; but he had seen
that the surgeon was merely preoccupied, refusing the petition absently
in order that his reflections should not be disturbed, rather than that
he cared to forbid the journey.
"If he only knew how much I wanted to go, he would have said 'yes,'"
thought Georg. "Father nearly always lets me do things when I ask him.
He really didn't hear what I said,--didn't hear inside him, I mean,--or
he would have taken me. I'll go! I'll go anyway, and when I get there
father will be sure to let me stay."
Fired with this determination, Georg set off, running nimbly behind the
carriage, taking pains all the while to keep out of the surgeon's sight.
Although Mummer was not very fleet as horses go, she jogged steadily
along, and the boy, following close behind the carriage, began to wonder
why she never stopped to catch her breath and cool herself. Up and down
hill, over bridges, through strips of forest, went horse, carriage, and
boy; and, as the sun blazed down, and the road grew dusty to choking,
the last one of the procession became so hot and breathless that he
feared he must stop or die.
At twelve o'clock the carriage drew up before a roadside inn; and when
the hostler came to take charge of Mummer, Mr. Händel opened the door
and stepped out upon the flower-bordered driveway.
The flash of a silver hat-cord seemed to twinkle before his eyes, and
seized with a sharp suspicion, the old gentleman strode quickly round to
the back of the carriage only to see a pair of small black legs
disappearing under the vehicle.
"Georg!" he ejaculated. "Come out, instantly! What are you doing here?"
A dusty, sheepish boy crawled slowly into sight, murmuring confusedly as
he rose,--
"I knew you'd let me go if you thought about it, so I came--"
Dizzy from heat and fatigue, Georg clutched the wheel to keep himself
from falling; and the surgeon took him anxiously by the shoulder.
"You foolish boy! What possessed you to undertake such a tramp! I didn't
care particularly if you came. Here, let's go into the inn and get
dinner! You will feel better when you have had warm food and time to
rest. I'll send a messenger back to your mother, so she will know that
you have come with me. You foolish child!"
The evening was spent in the ducal palace, whither the surgeon had been
summoned with his professional report; and the novel sights and sounds
proved so exciting to Georg that long after he was tucked into his cot
he lay wide awake, thinking of all that he had enjoyed. When sleep did
finally overtake him, he dreamed of the gayly uniformed guards stationed
inside and outside the palace, of the massive corridors, rich with works
of art, and the vast assembly room where the duke had held an audience,
while he himself had looked down from an upper gallery upon the throngs
of men and women, the flowers, the banners, and listened to the music
wafted from the musicians' balcony opposite.
Christian Händel, a nephew of Georg's, although more than twice the
boy's age, was a member of the duke's train, and he had piloted the
small visitor about the place, pointing out to him the things that would
prove of especial interest. He had likewise introduced his young
relative to the musicians, and they, attracted by the boy's
straightforward manner and intelligent replies, cordially received him
among them.
Morning came before Georg realized that he had been asleep, and with
it, Christian, who shook him awake.
"Dress yourself quickly, Georg, for the duke goes to church this
morning, and when he attends, nobody else in the house is permitted to
stay away."
Christian conducted Georg to the organ-loft, that he might better see
the sumptuous chapel and the duke with his richly apparelled retinue
passing in for service.
The white-haired organist, whom Georg had met the night before, greeted
him pleasantly; and Christian left him in care of the aged musician,
while he hurried down to take his place among the crimson-clad
retainers.
When, an hour later, the duke sat in his apartment at breakfast, the
sound of the organ fell upon his ear. Himself a passionate lover of
music, he could readily distinguish the touch of the various players at
court; but this soft and unfamiliar strain caused him to bend forward
with a puzzled look. Gradually the music grew more distinct, and soon
the palace resounded with a strong and stately melody.
"Who is at the organ?" the duke demanded suddenly, glancing inquiringly
at one of his attendants.
"It is the little Händel from Halle, your grace," replied Christian.
"A relative of yours?"
The young man blushed, for he was unwilling to confess to an
eight-year-old uncle; but he told the truth and satisfied his pride by
explaining distinctly,--
"He is my grandfather's youngest son."
"Bring him hither, and his father also."
Christian disappeared, and presently Mr. Händel entered by one door,
just before his son and grandson appeared on the threshold of the other.
The duke motioned the old gentleman to a distant corner, and beckoned
the boy to approach.
Georg, bereft of Christian's support, and unaware of his father's
presence, became so frightened that his breath almost failed as he
advanced, and he wondered wildly if the trembling of his knees could be
detected by the company. He carried his black beaver on his arm, as he
had seen the courtiers do, and when he came within a few feet of the
ducal chair, he bowed with a curious little bob that set the whole room
laughing.
"Silence!" commanded the duke sternly; then turning, he kindly asked his
small auditor what his name might be.
"Georg Friedrich Händel," replied the boy tremulously, but with the
sound of his own voice his terror dissolved, and he stood before the
Duke of Sächse with respectful composure.
"When did you learn to play the organ, my manikin?"
"This morning, your grace."
"This morning!" echoed the duke, astounded. "Can it be true that you
have never tried the instrument before to-day?"
"Well, you see, we have no organ at home," returned Georg
apologetically.
The duke studied him for a moment, as though seeking for traces of
falsehood, but Georg's utter simplicity was strangely convincing.
Quietly the duke put his next question.
"Upon what instruments _have_ you played before?"
"Last winter and this summer I have played every day on my aunt's
clavichord, your grace."
Here a loud gasp was heard from a distant corner, but the duke frowned
for silence.
"And what before the clavichord, my boy?"
"A mouth organ, a tin trumpet, a fife, a drum, and a dinner-bell, your
grace."
A dozen irrepressible titters burst from the attendants, but the duke
grew very grave.
"And that is all, lad?"
"All, your grace."
"No lessons?"
"No--except when Aunt Anna and I taught each other. But you mustn't
tell father about the clavichord, your grace, because it is a secret,
and father told me to give away my own instruments, and Aunt Anna
wouldn't like to give away her clavichord, so please don't let him know
about it."
"I am afraid that he knows already," said the duke, smiling; and at his
signal, the Halle surgeon emerged from his corner, pale with amazement.
Georg was so confounded at sight of his parent, that, unable to meet his
expected look of condemnation, he buried his face in the folds of the
duke's breakfast cloth.
"I am sorry, Mr. Händel," said the duke, "that I betrayed the child's
secret. Had I known there was anything confidential in the interview, I
should have held it in private. But now that the mischief is done, will
you tell me why you oppose the musical study that Georg desires?"
"Merely, your grace, because he neglects his school for music when I
allow it. I am a music-lover myself, but I wish to educate my son for a
jurist, and I cannot have the plan interfered with, even by music."
"Let me suggest, then, that you allow the music lessons and compel the
school lessons, taking away the instrument if he fails at school; and
when he is old enough and wise enough to be a jurist, he will be capable
of choosing for himself the work of his life."
"I thank you, your grace! The advice is fair and judicious, and I shall
be happy to act upon it. If I have made a mistake, it was out of concern
for the child's best good, your grace."
"An error on the safe side, Mr. Händel. A-ha, my small minstrel, do you
hear how your father and I have arranged matters?"
Georg had not fully understood the conversation, but he gathered that
the duke had somehow persuaded the surgeon to allow his little son to
play upon the clavichord as much as he wished, if he were faithful at
school.
"Does the prospect please you?" asked the duke, his eyes twinkling.
"It does, it does!" cried Georg, his face radiant. "I am obliged to your
grace, and I am sure that you are almost as good and fine a person as my
Aunt Anna."
One night, in London, a concert was given at a certain music-hall, and
the money earned from the sale of tickets was to be used to relieve the
poor children of the city.
Such a throng of people crowded into the hall that every seat was
promptly filled, and the door-keepers were obliged to turn away many who
desired to attend.
King George II. appeared in the royal box, and when he had been
respectfully saluted by the people, the hall grew still. The stage was
filled with singers, and soon the room resounded with the thrilling
notes of a new piece called "The Messiah."
The people had expected to be only pleasantly entertained, but as one
strain followed another, they bent forward entranced. Such harmonies
they had never listened to before, and the people in the hall were moved
to the point of tears. At length the sounds grew so impressive that the
king could contain himself no longer, but leaped to his feet. Instantly
the people, following the lead of their sovereign, rose impulsively in
their places, and so standing, they waited until the glorious chorus was
ended.
Throughout the performance, a fine old gentleman sat quietly on the
stage near the singers, listening intently. His face wore a look of
noble earnestness, and he did not smile until the last note died away,
and from every part of the house voices cried,--
"Händel! Händel!"
For a moment he did not respond to their calls, but as the hall fell
into a tumult, and the shout increased to a deafening roar, the
white-haired gentleman rose and quietly bowed.
This did not satisfy the crowd, and from above, below, from right and
from left, excited men and women demanded that he should play for them.
The old gentleman bowed again, but finding that the audience would not
depart until he had yielded to its desire, he turned toward the massive
organ at his right.
Before he had taken a step, one of the singers hurried to his side, laid
a hand upon his arm, and conducted him slowly to the organ-bench. Then
it was that any stranger would have learned what all London
understood,--that the courtly old gentleman was blind.
At the first rich chord from the organ, a hush fell upon the room, and
when the silvery-haired musician finished, and rose to his feet with
another stately bow, the people silently filed out, too stirred by the
grandeur of his music for ordinary speech.
That night, in the city of London, hundreds of suffering and friendless
children were gathered into places of refuge, and were fed, warmed, and
clothed with the money earned by the genius and loving-kindness of Georg
Friedrich Händel.
SIX HUNDRED PLUS ONE
[COLERIDGE]
Up to London, one May morning, came Samuel Coleridge, and as the coach
rattled over the pavements, and the roar and tumult of the city filled
his ears, the boy clutched his uncle's arm with delight. Never before in
all his ten years had he journeyed beyond the quaint country village
where he was born, and the dun clouds of city smoke caused him to look
expectantly about for rain.
His uncle laughed and patted the boy's arm good-naturedly. "Never mind,"
he said; "these crowded streets will soon become as homelike to you as
one of your Devonshire fields."
Mr. Bowdon was right, and at the end of a week Samuel could go alone
about the quarter of the city where his uncle resided, and his ears grew
so accustomed to the mighty din that he quite forgot there was any
noise to hear.
Samuel was the youngest of thirteen children. His mother was a widow,
and gradually she had become too poor to provide food and shelter for so
great a family. To be sure, the oldest brothers and sisters aided her as
best they could, but times were hard, money was scarce at best, and when
Uncle Bowdon proposed to undertake the care and education of Samuel his
offer was thankfully accepted. It was planned that the boy should visit
at his uncle's house for several weeks, and that later in the summer he
should enter the famous charity school known as Christ's Hospital. Many
families sought to send their sons to this school, but only those pupils
were admitted who were too poor to pay for their education.
Samuel was tall for his age, and very dark. He was attractive without
being handsome, for his striking look of intelligence, his slight,
straight figure and ready laughter, earned for him the frankest
approval of friends and strangers too.
Mr. Bowdon was exceedingly proud of him, and often took him to his club,
that his friends might become acquainted with his young guest. Also Mr.
Bowdon planned frequent excursions about the city, so that his nephew
might enjoy the notable sights of London. These were indeed gala days
for Samuel, and when the time came for him to go to school he could
scarcely believe that ten weeks had flown since he had come up by the
coach from his country home. It is doubtful whether Mr. Bowdon would
have been willing to part with the lad even after so long a visit, but
his business just at this time compelled him to take a long journey to
the East Indies, and he desired to see the boy safely established before
departing from London.
Accordingly, one fine July afternoon, uncle and nephew arrived at the
great school in Newgate Street, through whose high iron gate they were
admitted by a boy wearing a queer costume of blue and yellow. Samuel
had no eyes for the stately buildings grouped about the enclosure, for
across the shaded central grass-plot marched a veritable army of boys,
walking four abreast with military precision. Like the page at the gate,
they wore long blue coats reaching nearly to the ankle and trimly
girdled with red, bright yellow stockings, low buckled shoes and
neckbands of snowy whiteness. Oddly enough, their heads were bare, and
Samuel supposed that they had left their caps behind, though he learned
later that the "king's boys," as these were called, never wore head
coverings of any description, but went serenely abroad in all weathers,
guiltless of beaver, helmet, or turban.
On they came, more boys and more boys, until Samuel grew fairly dizzy
with watching the steadily moving column.
"What is the occasion?" inquired Mr. Bowdon of the gatekeeper.
"The lord mayor is visiting the school to-day, sir, and the scholars
are going now to hear his address."
When the gayly apparelled procession had gone in, the steward of the
school, a young man in russet gown, came to greet the strangers and to
show them about the place. He conducted them through the twelve
dormitories, where rows of narrow white beds stood side by side down
either wall; to the dining-hall with its long tables, where all the
students sat down at once; and to the office of the registrar, a
spectacled old gentleman, who took down a great book and gravely wrote
upon one of its yellowish pages,--
"Samuel Taylor Coleridge, aged ten; born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire,
October, 1772. Regularly entered at Christ's Hospital, July 18, 1782."
Then Mr. Bowdon took his departure, for he was to leave the city at
nightfall. Samuel accompanied him to the gate, where he received his
uncle's affectionate farewells, then peering wistfully through the iron
palings, he watched the portly figure move slowly down Newgate Street,
until it was lost to view in the passing crowds.
With the last glimpse of Mr. Bowdon, Samuel was seized with a sudden
panic of fear and loneliness, for never before had he been out of the
sight of kindred faces, nor out of the sound of kindred voices. Even the
page had left the gate, and Samuel clung to the palings in strange
dismay. His attention was arrested by the doors of the lecture-hall
being thrown open and the blue and yellow procession reappearing, headed
by the lord mayor of London and a company of white-wigged, black-gowned
masters and tutors. The gate swung back, the lord mayor received a
military salute from the boys, and passed out to his waiting carriage,
and at sound of a clanging bell the procession turned and wound its way
to the dining-hall, leaving the campus deserted except for the presence
of one young stranger.
"I wonder if I am to go in, or if I am to have any supper at all,"
queried the boy, looking anxiously about, as he suddenly awakened to the
fact that he was fearfully hungry. "Nobody knows that I am here but the
steward and the old man with the book."
His doubts were relieved by the appearance of the brown-robed steward,
who beckoned to him from the entrance of the dining-hall.