them all, and for many others who came and went at their will, and who
grumbled if everything was not exactly to their liking. As his bodily
sufferings increased, he nerved himself to face the end with a
touchingly childlike confidence. His thoughts wandered back to his
wife. "We have been parted thirty years," he said. "Perhaps she is now
praying for me. God help me. God, Thou art merciful, hear my prayers,
and enable me to trust in Thee." Years before, when wandering about the
dark aisles with Goldsmith, he had pointed to the sleeping figures
around, saying, "And our names may perhaps be mixed with theirs." So
now he was delighted when, in answer to his question, he was told that
he would be buried in Westminster Abbey. "Do not give me any more
physic," he asked the doctor at the very last; "I desire to render up my
soul to God unclouded."
His funeral was a very quiet one, in great contrast to Garrick's, but
his executors felt that "a cathedral service with lights and music"
would have been too costly; as it was, the Dean and Chapter charged high
fees, and the expenses came to more than two hundred pounds. But
Boswell assures us that a "respectable number of his friends attended,"
and though the Abbey holds many a greater name than that of Samuel
Johnson, few that sleep there carried a braver, kindlier heart
throughout a life of constant suffering.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan was the son of an actor and manager who had
been driven from Ireland, his native country, by a series of
misfortunes, and forced to earn his living in England as a teacher of
elocution. Want of money, endless debts, a wonderful power of spending
freely with an entire absence of forethought, characterised the Sheridan
family, and young Richard was brought up on those very happy-go-lucky
principles. He was sent to Harrow, where his tutor said, "The sources
of his infirmities were a scanty and precarious allowance from the
father;" and when he left school, a handsome, brilliant, careless boy of
seventeen the state of the family purse made any further education out
of the question. His father had settled in Bath, and here Richard made
the acquaintance of that beautiful girl and wonderful singer, Elizabeth
Lindley "the link between an angel and a woman," as an Irish bishop
called her, whose father also taught music and gave concerts in Bath.
She was very unhappy, as her relations wished to force her into a
marriage with a rich but elderly gentleman whom she disliked, and in her
despair she confided her troubles to Richard Sheridan, the one among her
many admirers to whom she had given her heart. To make a long story
short, the young couple fled together "on a matrimonial expedition," as
the _London Chronicle_ worded it; and in spite of all opposition they
married, and took up their abode in London, near Portman Square. Though
neither of them had any private fortune, Sheridan refused to allow his
wife to sing in public. This action of his was warmly discussed by Dr.
Johnson's friends, some of whom said that as the young gentleman had not
a shilling in the world, he was foolishly delicate or foolishly proud.
The Doctor, however, applauded him roundly. "He is a brave man. He
resolved wisely and nobly. Would not a gentleman be disgraced by having
his wife singing publicly for him? No, sir, there can be no doubt
here." But Sheridan had another surprise in store for his friends, and
suddenly it became known that he had written a play called "The Rivals,"
with which the manager of Covent Garden Theatre was entranced, a light,
fresh comedy, bearing on fashionable life in Bath. It was produced, and
in spite of its many faults, chiefly arising from its having been
written in such hot haste, it made a reputation for its author, which
prepared the way for his great triumph two years later, when he brought
out "The School for Scandal," still the most popular of English
comedies. With it he leapt into fame, and though barely twenty-five, he
became the man whose name was in everybody's mouth. With characteristic
airiness and vagueness in money matters, he took upon himself the
responsible duties of manager to Drury Lane Theatre after Garrick
retired, and brilliant though he was, his recklessness and want of any
business habits, soon brought about a serious state of chaos and
rebellion there. This, however, seemed to disturb him but little, and
he turned his attention to politics; for at the Literary Club he had
made many political friends, including Fox, and he proposed going into
Parliament as an independent member, though he believed that "either
ministry or opposition would be happy to engage him." He found a seat
at Stafford, and freely promised employment in Drury Lane Theatre to
those who voted for him; while the necessary money for the election,
which of course Sheridan did not possess, was provided by a gentleman in
return for a share in the Opera House. His first speech was not a
success, but though disappointed he was not daunted.
"It is in me, however," he declared, "and it shall come out."
Within a very short time the House of Commons listened to him as it
would listen to no one else. By constant practice he had trained
himself to speak perfectly and true to his Irish blood, he had a rich
store of language, a fund of wit and humour, and the power of handling
every emotion. His great speech in the Warren Hastings case lasted six
hours, during the whole of which time he held the House in the hollow of
his hand, and when he continued his attack in Westminster Hall, people
paid twenty guineas a day to hear him. "I cannot tell you," wrote his
devoted wife to her sister, "the adoration that he has excited in the
breasts of every class of people. Every party prejudice has been
overcome by such a display of genius, eloquence, and goodness."
Sheridan indeed was at the height of his glory; but fame is a dangerous
pinnacle for the strongest of men, and Sheridan had no foundation-stones
of strength or stability. His wife's death was the beginning of his
fall, debt and drink did the rest. All sense of honour seems to have
left him where money was concerned. His actors could get no payments
save in fair words; he kept the money which resulted from special
benefits; he borrowed where he could, and then plunged the more deeply
into debt, but he never curbed his extravagances, or went without
anything he desired, no matter to what means he had to resort. His
buoyancy never failed him. Even when his theatre was burnt to the ground
with a loss to him of L200,000, his ready wit did not desert him. He sat
drinking his wine in a coffee-house from where he could see the flames,
merely remarking to a sympathetic friend, "A man likes to take a glass
of wine by his own fireside." All the latter part of his life is
painfully sad; debt, poverty, and dishonour hemmed him in, and excessive
drinking brought on his last illness. A few days before his death he
was discovered almost starving in an unfurnished room. Even then the
bailiffs were about to carry him away to the debtors' gaol, and only the
doctor, who stayed and nursed him to the end, prevented this last
disgrace. The news of his destitution horrified those who remembered
him in the days of his dazzling triumphs, and in one paper an eloquent
appeal was made to the public generosity, "that we may prefer
ministering in the chamber of sadness to ministering at the splendid
sorrows which adorn the hearse." In response, crowds of people, royal
dukes included, flocked to leave delicacies at his lodging. But it was
too late; the fitful life with all its successes and failures was over,
the shining eyes of which he had been so proud were closed for ever now,
the man who had "done everything perfectly" was no more: the greatest
orator of his day was silent.
He had always hoped to be buried in Westminster Abbey, "where there is
very snug lying," and if possible next to Fox and Pitt. Moreover, he
had desired that his passage to the grave should be quiet and simple.
But his friend, Peter Moore, determined that he should have a splendid
funeral; every one was invited and every one came. The procession was
of great length, and "such an array of rank, so great a number of
distinguished persons" had never before assembled within the memory of
the beholders. There was just room for a single grave near to where
David Garrick lay, and here Sheridan was buried. While lest his name
should be all too soon forgotten, a simply worded tablet was immediately
prepared--the last tribute of Peter Moore.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*THE MUSICIANS IN THE ABBEY*
The Abbey which has its poets, its writers, and its actors, has also its
musicians. Henry Purcell, who lies in the north aisle, spent his short
life among Westminster precincts, for he was horn in the year 1658 at
"an ancient house of Westminster, next door to the public-house and
skittle ground--the 'Bell and Fish.'" His father, a "master of musique,
who could sing brave songs," was a gentleman of the Chapel Royal, a
singing man of the Abbey, master of the choristers there, and, most
important of all, the musical copyist. For under the Commonwealth,
church choirs and music had been sternly repressed, organs had been
broken up, singing books had been burned as superstitious and ungodly,
so that when once more the old cathedral services were allowed to be
held, but few of the old service books were left, and copyists had to
make good the deficiency. The older Purcell died when his little boy was
quite young, but Thomas Purcell, an uncle, also a gentleman of the
Chapel Royal, took him in hand, and at six years old Henry became a
chorister under that delightful old Master of the Children of the
chapel, Captain Cook, a musician whose devotion to King Charles I. had
led him to turn soldier during the Civil War, and who in his old age had
returned to his first love. Purcell was under this original master for
eight years, and the old soldier seems to have taken a special pride in
the little chorister. But he did not live to see his favourite pupil
become famous, for in 1672 the old master died and was buried in the
Westminster cloisters, whither he was followed two years later by his
successor Humphreys. Then John Blow, another pupil, became Master of the
Children, and, as it is specially stated on his monument in the Abbey,
at the same time "master to the famous Henry Purcell." It was
everything to the boy to be under so rare a teacher, for not only was he
an excellent musician, but also a man singularly sympathetic and
pure-minded, generous to a degree and without a thought of self. He
became organist of Westminster Abbey, but he resigned it because he
thought it the very post Purcell could fill with advantage. He then
accepted St. Paul's, but having another pupil, Clarke, whom he
considered suited to it, he again set his own interests entirely on one
side and retired in his favour.
[Illustration: GEORGE FREDERICK HANDEL.]
Purcell became a copyist of Westminster, but he chiefly devoted his time
to composing operas, as the managers of theatres offered him plenty of
work. He also turned his attention to church music and anthems. The
year 1680 saw Purcell organist of the Abbey at the age of twenty-two,
and soon afterwards he modestly brought out a book of sonatas for two
violins, a bass, and the harpsichord or organ, in the preface to which
he said he had faithfully endeavoured a just imitation of the most famed
Italian masters, and went on to explain that, lest the terms of art
should puzzle his readers, _adagio_ imported nothing but a very slow
movement; _presto_, _largo_, and _vivace_, a very brisk, swift, or fast
movement; and _piano_ a soft one. Operas, anthems, and odes all seem to
have flowed easily from his ready pen, and a list of them would only be
tedious. Among his anthems, perhaps the best known is the one composed
for the coronation of James II., "I was glad when they said unto me, we
will go into the House of the Lord." The coronation of William and
Mary, however, led to quite a stir in the inner circle of the Abbey, for
Purcell allowed a number of persons to watch the ceremony from his
organ-loft, charging them for admission. Now to this there was no
objection, but when rumour related that the fees so obtained amounted to
some hundreds of pounds, the Dean and Chapter, presuming that this was
worth contending for, claimed the money as their dues. Purcell declared
that he had a right to organ-loft fees; and the feeling must have run
high, as in an old chapter note-book there runs the order that "Mr.
Purcell, the _organ blower_, is to pay such money as was received by him
for places in the organ-loft, in default thereof his place to be
declared null and void." How the quarrel ended is not known. However,
Purcell did not leave the Abbey, but went on with his flow of
compositions, and won from the poet Dryden the statement that "here we
have at length found an _Englishman_ equal with the best abroad." It
was to Purcell that Dryden turned for the music to his opera King
Arthur, "for," he declared, "the artful hands of Mr. Purcell compose
with so great a genius, that he has nothing to fear but an ignorant,
ill-judging audience." Queen Mary seems to have had a liking for very
popular music, and once seriously offended Purcell, when some of his
compositions were being performed to her, by asking to have sung instead
the old Scotch ballad, "Cold and raw." So when he next had to compose a
birthday ode for her, he carefully introduced the air of "Cold and raw."
When the Queen died he wrote two beautiful anthems for the funeral
service in the Abbey, "Blessed is the man," and "Thou knowest, Lord, the
secrets of our hearts," of which a singer in the choir writes, "I appeal
to all who were present, to those who understood music as well as to
those who did not, whether they ever heard anything so rapturously fine
and solemn, so heavenly in the operation, drawing tears from all, and
yet a plain natural composition, which shows the power of music when
'tis rightly fitted and adapted to devotional purposes." At many a
great public funeral since, this touching music of Purcell's has been
used, and nothing has taken its place.
Delicate from his boyhood, it was early evident that Henry Purcell's
life as organist of the Abbey was to be a short one, and in the year
1695 a pathetic little note was added to his song, "Lovely Albinia,"
stating that, "This is the last song the author sett before his
sickness." His illness was just a wasting away, "dangerously ill in the
constitution, but in good and perfect minde and memory, thanks be to
God," to quote his own words. A touching account has been given, in Dr.
Cumming's "Life of Purcell" of the closing scene in this bright young
life:--
"He lay in a house on the west side of Dean's Yard, Westminster, from
whence he could probably hear some faint murmurs of the Evensong service
wafted from the old Abbey close by, some well-remembered phrase,
perhaps, of one of his own soul-stirring anthems. The Psalms for the
day (the 21st) to be chanted at that evening service, concluded with
words he had set to music which the world was not likely soon to forget,
music which still remains unsurpassed in truthfulness and dignity. A
more noble or more fitting death-chant for a child of son" it would be
difficult to find--
"'Blessed be the Lord God of Israel
From everlasting, and world without end.
And let all the people say, Amen.'
"So his gentle spirit passed into the better world, there to continue
his service of song and praise in fulness and perfection."
His own anthems were sung at his funeral; the organ he had so loved
pealed out its rich farewell to him; and on his gravestone are these
words in Latin--
"Dead? No, he lives, while yonder organ's sound,
And sacred echoes to the choir rebound."
Dr. Blow went back to his old post as Abbey organist on the death of his
pupil, and devoted himself to church music. "To this," he said, "I have
ever especially consecrated the thoughts of my whole life. All the rest
I consider but as blossoms and leaves. With this I began my youthful
raptures in this art, with this I hope calmly and comfortably to end my
days." His best known anthem, "I beheld, and lo!" was written within a
week for James II., who had asked him if he could do as well as the
Italian composers, and the king, much pleased with it, sent Father Peter
to congratulate Blow after service. The priest, however, took it upon
himself to add that, "in his opinion, it was somewhat too long."
"That," replied Blow scornfully, "is only one fool's opinion. I heed it
not."
Blow, who died and was buried opposite to Purcell in 1708, was
considered by his fellow-musicians "to be the greatest master in the
world for the organ, especially in his voluntaries, which he played
gravely and seriously." The inscription on his grave declares "that his
musical compositions are a far nobler monument to his memory than any
that can be raised to him," and on the open music-book below is given
the _Gloria_ from his fine Jubilate in C major.
William Croft succeeded Blow as organist, and most of his musical
compositions were written for special occasions; as, for example, his
anthem, "I will give thanks," which was produced after the famous
Blenheim victory. He, too, was of a lovable, kindly disposition, and the
inscription on his monument ends thus quaintly: "He emigrated to the
Heavenly Choir, with that Concert of Angels, for which he was better
fitted, adding his Hallelujah. Awake up my glory! Awake lute and harp!
I myself will awake right early."
Half a century later, that prince among musicians, George Frederick
Handel, was buried in the Poets' Corner. Though not of English birth or
upbringing, he had become an English subject, and had found a warm
welcome in the hearts of the English people. From babyhood he had shown
the bent of his mind. Even his toys were tiny trumpets, horns, and
Jew's harps, much to the annoyance of his kind old father, the
well-known doctor in the German town of Halle, who thought this craze of
George Frederick's should be forcibly put a stop to, and who decreed
therefore, that "there was to be no more jingling, neither was he to go
into houses where music was practised."
The boy was outwardly submissive, but the longing within was too strong
for him. Somehow he got possession of an old clavichord, one of those
muffled instruments on which musical monks could practise without
disturbing the brethren, and this he smuggled up to a garret in the roof
of the house, where, with storks to bear him company, he played away to
his soul's content. It was in utter ignorance of all this, that Dr.
Handel took the little boy with him once, when summoned to attend the
Court at Sache-Weisseufels, where the reigning duke delighted in
learning, art, and music. Naturally, George Frederick found his way to
the organ-loft, where the good-natured organist lifted him up, for he
was but seven, that he might touch the notes. To his surprise, the
child began to play with a practised hand, and with so much style, that
the Grand Duke, who heard him, sent for the doctor and begged him not
further to thwart such a genius. So from this time forward the boy was
allowed to study seriously, under the enthusiastic organist of the
Liebfrauen Kirche in Halle, who taught him to play the harpsichord, the
organ, the violin, the hautboy, and other instruments, besides the art
of counterpoint. When, after years of study, he came to England, where
Purcell's death had made a blank not yet filled up, he was received with
open arms, his fame having preceded him. At once he was engaged to
write an opera for the Queen's Theatre, and having discovered a
_libretto_ which greatly pleased him, a stirring story of the Crusades,
his ideas poured forth so fast and so easily, that in a fortnight he had
completed the work, and his "Rinaldo" was soon the rage of the season.
Although Handel held the post of Kapellmeister to the Elector of
Hanover, and had only been given leave of absence for a "reasonable
time," he could not tear himself away from London, so well did he like
the place and the people.
From operatic music he turned to oratorio. The Duke of Chandos, who
lived in almost regal state at his palace at Cannons, maintained an
orchestra and choir, so that the musical services of his private chapel
might be as nearly perfect as possible. To Handel he offered the post
of musical director, and thus, in church music, the great composer's
genius found a new outlet. The wonderful old Bible stories, with their
vigour and dramatic force, and the stately Bible language, with its rich
simplicity, strongly appealed to him, and it is because of his oratorios
and cantatas rather than through his other works, that the name and the
memory of Handel remain for ever fresh among us. "Esther" was his first
great work in this new line, first performed in a private house at
Westminster by the children of the Chapel Royal, assisted by the
choristers of the Abbey. So pleased were the guests, that a few days
later the performance was repeated at the Crown and Anchor tavern in the
Strand, and would further have been given at the Opera House, had not
the Bishop of London refused permission for any choristers to take part.
Eventually, with a new band of singers, the oratorio was publicly given,
by the king's command, in the Haymarket Theatre, "with a great number of
voices and instruments," and it was specially announced that "there
would be no acting on the stage, though the house would be fitted up in
a decent manner for the audience." To this performance came all the
royal family, while so great was the crowd, that hundreds were turned
empty away, and six extra performances had to be at once arranged for.
"Deborah" and "Athaliah" soon followed, also "Acis and Galatea," which
latter, though not sacred music, served to increase his popularity, his
audiences numbering thousands. A great blow to him was the death of
Queen Caroline, his kindest, most sympathetic friend, and in composing
the anthem for her funeral in the Abbey he wrote from the depths of his
sorrowing heart. Nothing could exceed the pathos or the sweetness of
that music, with its undercurrent of desolate grief, and when, in the
February of 1901, the Abbey was thronged with a great representative
assembly, there to pay a last tribute of reverence to another queen,
this anthem rang once more through the old walls.
Success to Handel was but a stepping-stone, leading him towards
something higher. He was never satisfied with himself, but went on from
strength to strength, conscious of his own power to produce music which
should live for ever. His "Saul" and his "Israel in Egypt" showed how
completely he could throw himself into the spirit of his subject, and
through the pages of his music, Saul, Goliath and David, the Children of
Israel, the Egyptians and Miriam, all spring into life for us. As we
listen, the story takes new shape, and the events which surround it
stand out with a new lurid light.
But the greatest work of all was not produced in London. Handel went on
a visit to Dublin, where he found audiences "more numerous and polite
than he had ever seen on like occasions," and the general enthusiasm "so
put him in good spirits," that after completing a second series of
concerts a special performance was announced, at which "Mr. Handel's new
grand oratorio called 'The Messiah'" was to be given. Furthermore, as a
great crowd was anticipated, ladies were begged to come without their
hoops, and gentlemen without their swords, for in this way quite another
hundred persons could be accommodated.
"The finest composition of musick that was ever heard," was the verdict
of that "grand, polite, and crowded audience," and a liberal sum was
received for the "relief of the prisoners in the gaols," to which
charity Handel, with peculiar appropriateness, had offered to devote the
profits. Strange to say, the new work did not at once take root in
London, but with repeated performances its triumph became steady and
lasting. The subject was a great one. The smallest mistake in dealing
with it would have jarred painfully, and so little would have robbed
that simple story of its majesty. But Handel gave to it a new glory, a
new splendid dignity, and to many a heart those familiar words have
struck home with a reality hitherto undreamt of, through the beauty and
the force of his music. Reverently he touched the great mystery, and as
the story took life before his awe-struck eyes, he translated it into
harmonies worthy of so vast a theme.