The death of the Queen must have awakened Handel with a shock to a sense of his neglect of duty, for the Elector of Hanover thereupon came to England as her successor. That King George would be likely to receive Handel with favour was out of the question, notwithstanding the monarch's love of music and the fame which had grown about his Capellmeister's name. The offence lay far too deep for that, and Handel realised that he must employ some special means of grace to secure his master's pardon. The opportunity he sought for came ere long. A royal entertainment on the Thames was arranged, in which there was to be a grand procession of decorated barges from Whitehall to Limehouse. An orchestra was provided, and Handel was requested by the Lord Chamberlain to compose the music for the fete, in the hope that by so doing he might pave the way towards a reconciliation. Handel acquiesced, and the result was the series of pieces which have since been known as the 'Water Music,' The King was so delighted with the performance that he had it repeated, and, learning that Handel was conducting it in person, he sent for him, and not only granted him a full pardon, but conferred upon him an additional pension of L200. Nor did the royal favour stop here, for he was shortly afterwards appointed music-master to the daughters of the Prince of Wales at a salary of L200 a year. Handel was thus raised to a position of independence, for as the original grant from Queen Anne continued in force he enjoyed a total income of L600 a year, a sum which in those days was equivalent to a considerable fortune.

It was not long after this that Handel was appointed chapel-master to the Duke of Chandos, at the latter's palace of Cannons, near Edgware. The post up till then had been held by a certain Dr. Pepusch, but he resigned at once in favour of Handel. Anything more princely in style than Cannons could hardly be imagined; its size and magnificence were the talk of the country for miles around, whilst the fabulous riches of its owner and his luxuriousness of living earned for him the title of 'The Grand Duke,' The palace itself has long since disappeared, but the chapel originally attached to it has been preserved, and now forms the parish church of Whitchurch, or Little Stanmore. The interior is furnished and decorated after the fashion of the Italian churches, but it is not on account of its structural beauty that the church has become the object of interest to thousands of pilgrims who annually make their way to the village of Edgware; it is the knowledge that it was here that Handel composed his first English oratorio, 'Esther,' as well as numerous anthems and other minor works. The manuscript score of this fine work—which is but rarely heard now—is to be seen in the Royal Collection of Handel manuscripts at Buckingham Palace, though a portion of it is missing. No one who finds his way to the church of Little Stanmore should fail to notice the organ, for it is the instrument used by Handel from 1718 to 1721, and on which he played the organ parts of 'Esther,' when the oratorio was performed for the first time in the Duke's chapel. With the lavishness that was his chief characteristic the Duke handed to the composer on this occasion L1,000, but in so doing he may have been actuated by a sincere desire to add to Handel's independence. Those were very happy and busy years which Handel passed at Cannons. Amongst the numerous compositions for the harpsichord belonging to this period is the suite of pieces which includes the air, with variations, popularly known as 'The Harmonious Blacksmith,' The origin of this title has for long been a matter of discussion; it is quite certain that Handel himself did not so name the piece, for the manuscript bears the title only of 'Air et Doubles,' nor was it ever known by any other name during the composer's lifetime. Yet there are few of us, perhaps, who willingly reject as fable the story which for many years after Handel's death was believed to have given a true account of its origin. According to this story Handel was one day walking to Cannons through the village of Edgware, when he was overtaken by a heavy shower of rain, and sought shelter within the smithy. The blacksmith was singing at his work, and the strokes of his hammer on the anvil kept time to his song. Handel, it is said, was so struck both by the air and its accompaniment that on reaching home he wrote down the tune with a set of variations upon it. Assuming this story to have no foundation in fact, no satisfactory explanation has been forthcoming to account for the origin of the title, and when, in 1835, the story was investigated, it was claimed that both anvil and hammer had been traced as having passed through several hands. The blacksmith's name was said to have been Powell, and the anvil is described as bearing a capital P, and, further, that 'when struck with the hammer it gives, first, the note B, but immediately afterwards sounds E. These notes correspond very nearly with the B-flat and E-flat of our present concert pitch, and therefore coincide very closely with the E-natural and B-natural of Handel's times,'[3] Again, with regard to the air itself, the contention that Handel took it from another composer has never been proved, and there is 'absolutely nothing to show that it is not the work of Handel.'[4]



It is difficult for us to imagine the road leading from the Marble Arch (then called Tyburn) to Edgware as being infested by highwaymen. This fact, like that regarding the condition of Piccadilly, serves to show in a striking manner how circumscribed the London of those days must have been. Handel must often have had to travel between Cannons and London, but we do not hear of his having been robbed by the way. The Duke, however, was attacked on more than one occasion, and he always performed the journey with an escort of his favourite Swiss Guards, of whom a body was kept to protect the palace.

For several years the production of opera 'after the Italian style,' which Handel on his coming over had done so much to stimulate, had languished for lack of funds. To many Londoners who were fond of music the sight of the closed doors of the King's Theatre in the Haymarket imparted a feeling of regret and loss. When, therefore, a number of rich patrons of music met together and decided to form themselves into a society for the purpose of reviving the opera in London, the project was received with signs of general pleasure. The King was greatly interested, and subscribed L1,000 to the venture. Handel was at once engaged in the double capacity of composer and 'impressario,' the latter duty charging him with the selection and engagement of singers. The new society was to be called the Royal Academy of Music, but we must not confuse this body with the Royal Academy of Music existing at the present day, which was founded in 1822.

Handel now set out for Germany with the object of visiting Dresden, where the Elector of Saxony was maintaining a company of the best singers for the performance of Italian opera. On his return journey he paid a visit to Halle, where he found his mother alive, and overjoyed to see him, though the cheery welcome of his old master Zachau could no longer be heard, for the old man had gone to his rest. There was another sad note about this visit, for on the very day that Handel left for England Sebastian Bach, filled with a longing to meet his great contemporary, arrived at Halle, whither he had journeyed from Coethen, only to find that he was a few hours too late. This was the last chance of their meeting, for when Handel paid his next visit to Germany Bach was dead.

Early in the following year the doors of the theatre in the Haymarket were besieged by a huge crowd, anxious to secure seats for the performance of Handel's new opera, 'Radamisto,' which was being produced by the Royal Academy of Music. The applause was deafening, and the success of the opera was assured. But Handel was not to be left to enjoy his honours in peace; an opposition party had already arisen, who were moved to do him evil partly from envy, and partly because he had stirred them up to resentment by his dominancy and self-will. From Hamburg came his old enemy, Buononcini, to try his fortune with the new society, and it was not long ere the rival composers were engaged with a third musician, whose name is uncertain (though some state it to have been that of Handel's friend of his Hamburg days—Ariosti), in the composition of a new opera. It was arranged that this work should form a kind of competition, with the object of determining whether Handel or Buononcini was the better composer. Thus Handel wrote the third act, and Buononcini the second, the first act being committed to the hands of the third musician, whose claim to be regarded as a rival was very small in comparison with the others. When the new work, 'Muzio Scaevola,' was performed Handel's act was pronounced by the principal judges to be much superior to that of Buononcini's; the latter's friends, however, refused to accept a defeat, and being joined by others, the battle waxed exceedingly hot. The newspapers took it up, and very soon nothing else was talked about but the rival merits of the two composers. Numerous verses were composed on either side, as well as others which poked fun at both parties. Amongst the latter was an epigram written by John Byrom, the Lancashire poet, which, without the knowledge of the author, got into all the papers, and was considered to hit off the situation more neatly than any which had gone before. Thus it runs:

'Some say, compar'd to Buononcini, That Mynheer Handel's but a Ninny; Others aver, that he to Handel Is scarcely fit to hold a Candle; Strange all this Difference should be, 'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!'

That Handel showed scant consideration for those who differed from him in regard to his works is proved by his treatment of the artists who were engaged to perform for him. He could not be thwarted from his bent, nor cajoled into doing anything that he disliked, whilst his stubborn pride prevented him from yielding to any, whether great or small. When, in 1723, his opera 'Ottone' was about to be produced, he had engaged as prima donna the great Continental singer, Francesca Cuzzoni. The lady does not appear to have possessed the sweetest of tempers, and she showed her independence by not putting in an appearance in England until the rehearsals were far advanced. This could not have been pleasing to the composer, but when on her presenting herself at the theatre she flatly refused to sing the aria 'Falsa Immagine' in the way Handel had written it, he burst into a rage, and seizing her in his arms, cried: 'Madam, you are a very she-devil, but I vill have you know dat I am Beelzebub, de prince of devils!' with which he made as if to throw her out of the window. Cuzzoni was so frightened by his fury that she promised to do as she was bid. Accordingly, she sang as he directed, and made one of her greatest successes with the song. How much the public appreciated the singing of this gifted artist we may guess when it is told that the directors obtained as much as five guineas for each seat when she was advertised to sing.

Although he would brook no contradiction on the part of those who were engaged to execute his works, Handel spared no pains to help them over a difficulty, or to show how his music should be expressed. At times, however, his temper took the form of the most unsparing sarcasm. One day a singer at rehearsal protested against the manner in which Handel was accompanying him on the harpsichord, and in a fit of anger exclaimed: 'If you continue to accompany me in that fashion I will jump from the platform on to the harpsichord, and smash it!' 'Vat!' cried Handel, looking up in surprise, 'do you say you vill jump? Den I vill advertise it at once, for people vould come to see you jump dat vill never come to hear you sing!'

We have not space to describe the whole of the works which Handel wrote for the Royal Academy of Music. His industry was untiring, and the fertility of his genius was such that within a period of eight years from the beginning of the Society's work he had composed and produced no fewer than fourteen operas. Amongst this number was the opera called 'Scipione,' in which is to be found a 'Triumphal March in D,' which the Grenadier Guards claim to have been specially composed for their regiment by Handel before its inclusion in the opera. The Guards are very proud of their march, and the band still plays it under the title of the 'Royal Guards March.'

During the whole of this time, however, Handel's enemies never ceased their opposition, and, despite successes, it was soon apparent that the rival parties were bent on destroying each other. The enormous cost incurred in producing operatic works, added to the losses occasioned by quarrels and dissensions amongst the singers, many of whom deserted Handel to join his enemies, at length brought the Royal Academy to the end of its resources. In 1727, when the society was tottering to its fall, the rival theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields brought out the famous work called 'The Beggar's Opera,' written by John Gay, which formed the first English ballad opera. Its success was stupendous; London was taken completely by storm, and everybody was soon singing and humming its catching airs. Fickle as the public taste had hitherto shown itself to be in regard to musical productions, it now became fixed on the new work, and opera in the 'Italian style' was completely deserted. What was the secret of this wonderful success? Simply this: a poet seized upon a number of the most entrancing airs which the musical genius of England and Scotland had produced, many of them belonging to ancient times, together with the favourite melodies of the day, and he set them to words which were utterly unworthy of the sentiment inspired by these beautiful compositions. The richest stores of ballad music were pillaged for this degrading work; the march in Handel's 'Rinaldo' was stolen to form a robber's chorus, whilst the exploits of Captain Macheath and his highwaymen companions were held up as models of daring and gallantry when performed to the most captivating of airs. The public hailed the piece with delight; the ladies modelled their dresses on the stage costume of 'Polly,' the heroine, and decorated their fans with the words of her songs, and for sixty-two nights the walls of the Lincoln's Inn Fields theatre shook with thunders of applause from gallery, pit, and stalls. In thus speaking of a work which not only held London captive for so long, but was afterwards performed in every part of the kingdom, we must not forget that its remarkable popularity was due in some measure to the brightness of its dialogue; to its witty sayings hitting off men and manners of the day; but, above all, to the exquisite beauty of its melodies, which served to lay a glamour over what otherwise would have undoubtedly been condemned as vulgar.

The success of the 'Beggar's Opera' completed the ruin of the Royal Academy of Music, but Handel, undismayed by the failure of this great scheme, and setting his enemies at defiance, went once more to Italy to collect a new company of singers, for he was determined to carry on the work himself with the fortune which his operas had brought him. On his way home he paid a visit to Halle, where he found his aged mother stricken by illness. She lingered until the following year (1730), when she died at the age of eighty. For several years Handel struggled to build up the fortunes of Italian opera in London, but the persistent rivalry and opposition of his enemies, combined with the decadence of musical taste on the part of the public, caused his losses to accumulate, until, in 1737, he found himself, after repeated failures, deeply in debt, and with his health broken down by overwork and anxiety. The whole of his fortune of L10,000 had been swallowed up in this disastrous enterprise, and it was a poor consolation for him to know that his rivals failed in the same year with a loss of L12,000. Not even at this juncture, however, would his indomitable will submit to the force of circumstances. After a brief rest at Aix la Chapelle, with a course of vapour baths, he returned to London prepared to begin the battle afresh, and although he had lost to a great extent the favour of the rich, his popularity was such that a statue of himself was executed by public subscription, and erected in Vauxhall Gardens, an honour which, as has been truly observed, had been paid to no other composer during his lifetime.

It was only after several failures that Handel was at length convinced that it was useless to attempt to re-awaken the interest of English audiences in Italian opera, and yet, although he made no concealment of his regret at the abandonment of a line of composition in which he had so greatly excelled, it was with no diminished vigour or determination that he now, at the age of fifty-five, turned his attention to work of a serious character. And if we admit that Handel excelled in operatic work, what shall we say of the oratorios which formed the later creations of his genius? To many of us, perhaps, his name is so intimately associated with the titles of his religious works that we are almost ready to believe that all which had gone before was merely in the nature of preparation for such noble works as 'Saul,' 'Israel in Egypt,' 'Samson,' 'Jephtha,' and, above all, the 'Messiah.' It is on the 'Messiah' alone that our space permits us to dwell, and we will endeavour to relate the story of how this great oratorio came to be written.

It was in 1741 that the plan of writing the 'Messiah' was formed, but it is not known whether the subject originated with Handel himself, or was suggested to him by a friend named Mr. Charles Jennens, a man of great literary tastes and acquirements, who lived a retired life in the country. It is certain, however, that Mr. Jennens selected and wrote out the passages from the Scriptures, and sent them to Handel to set to music, and for the care and choice exercised in this compilation we owe to Mr. Jennens a deep debt of gratitude. Towards the end of this year Handel received an invitation from the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland to visit Dublin, as the Irish people were very desirous of hearing some of his compositions performed in their country. Handel accepted the invitation very willingly, for he saw in the tone in which it was conveyed an assurance of the sympathy of the sister isle, as well as a prospect of being enabled to retrieve his fallen fortunes. He left England at the beginning of November, having previously sent a promise to Dublin that he would devote a portion of the money realised by his performances to three charitable institutions in that city. The music of the 'Messiah' must have been actually composed before he set foot upon the ship at Chester, for at the end of the following month we find him writing to Mr. Jennens from Dublin, and referring to the latter's oratorio, '"Messiah," which I set to music before I left England,'[5] Moreover, he must have had the manuscript score with him on his voyage, though his friends in London were ignorant of the fact; for we learn that being detained at Chester for some days by contrary winds, he got together at his inn several of the choir boys from the cathedral in order to try over some of the choral passages in the work. Needless to say, the title of the oratorio was not allowed to transpire on this occasion, but many of us may feel curious to know whether any of these young singers felt impressed by the beauty of the parts which it was their envied lot to 'try over' in the composer's room at the hostelry. One at least of these trial performers must have carried away an unpleasant experience of the great man's impetuous temper. 'Can you sing at sight?' was the question put to each before he was asked to sing, and one broke down lamentably at the start. 'What de devil you mean!' cried Handel, snatching the music from his hands. 'Did not you say you could sing at sight?' 'Yes, sir, I did,' responded the confused singer, 'but not at first sight!'

The welcome extended to Handel by the people of Dublin was a very warm one; the performances were a great success, and then we get the first public mention of the new oratorio. At the 'Musick Hall in Fishamble Street, Dublin' is to be performed 'Mr. Handel's new grand Oratorio, called the "Messiah," in which the Gentlemen of the Choirs of both Cathedrals will assist, with some Concertos on the Organ, by Mr. Handel.' It was further announced that the proceeds would be devoted to two charitable institutions, and 'for the Relief of the Prisoners in the several Gaols.' These latter were miserable persons who had been imprisoned for debt, and whose sufferings through neglect and poverty were such as to excite deep compassion. Four hundred pounds was the sum realised by this performance, which took place on Monday, April 13, 1742, and no doubt the poor prisoners felt very grateful to the composer, who had thus put into practice the very precepts which his sacred work inspired. So great was the success of this first performance that a second was called for, the announcement of which contained an earnest appeal to the ladies to leave their hoops behind them. This singular request was obeyed, with the result that accommodation was found for one hundred more persons than on the first occasion.



The citizens of Dublin seem to have been very loath to part with Handel, whilst he, for his part, must have felt in the warmth of his reception some recompense for the neglect from which he had been made to suffer in London. The visit was therefore prolonged for many months, and it was not until March 23, 1743, that a London audience gathered to witness their first performance of the 'Messiah'. How is it possible to give, in a few words, an idea of this great work? When we hear the 'Messiah' performed we are struck by its magnificence and beauty of expression; the language of Scripture seems to be clothed, as it were, in a beautiful garment of music which, ever changing as the oratorio proceeds, appears to give the fullest and most exact expression to each portion of the sacred story. At one time the music blazes forth like a jewelled crown when it catches the sun; at another it soars heavenwards like the song of the lark; once again it pours forth like the thunderous roar of a huge cataract, filling our ears with the majesty of its volume; then, again, it sinks to the tender moan of the wind as it sweeps through the trees; but everywhere and at all times it seems to exactly fit the words, and to give them their noblest expression. The oratorio opens with an overture, grand, yet simple, and designed to prepare our minds for the story which follows. Then we hear the words of the prophet Isaiah, 'Comfort ye my people,' telling of the coming of the Messiah, and relating the signs by which His approach is to be heralded—'Ev'ry valley shall be exalted,' etc.—and leading up to the revelation, 'The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light,' and so to the mighty outburst of harmony—'Wonderful! Counsellor!'—with which the prophecy reaches its culminating point. When these words are thundered forth in chorus we seem to have suddenly presented to our eyes a picture of the Messiah as He was revealed to the mind of the Prophet. But note attentively what follows. With the concluding notes of that grand choral outburst still ringing in our ears—the designation of a mighty Prince, a great Counsellor—we find ourselves, at the ushering in of the Nativity, not, as the words of the chorus would seem to predict, at the welcoming scene of a great Prince in all his splendour, but in the presence of a group of lowly shepherds tending their flocks in the quiet fields of Judaea. How wonderfully striking is the contrast between the grandeur of the concluding chorus and the simplicity and quiet beauty of the scene now presented to us by the Pastoral Symphony! It is founded upon the ancient melody which Handel had heard the Calabrian shepherds play at Rome[6] many years before, and soon the air is ringing with the chorus of the heavenly host, 'Glory to God in the highest,' followed by the joyful outburst, 'Rejoice greatly.' Then comes the revelation of what Christ shall be to His people—'He shall feed His flock like a Shepherd,' 'His yoke is easy and His burthen is light—' with which the first part comes to an end.

In the second part we are shown the incidents leading up to the Passion, and our emotions are deeply stirred by the pathetic music indicating the sufferings of our Lord. What could be more touchingly beautiful than the air, 'He was despised and rejected of men'? in the writing of which Handel is said to have burst into tears. Then, the Passion past, we have the realisation of all that that sacrifice meant, the awakening of hope, followed by the triumphal chorus, 'Lift up your heads, O ye gates!' and after a succession of beautiful airs and choruses we reach the culminating point of the Recognition in that grand hymn of praise, the 'Hallelujah Chorus,' with which the second part concludes.

Scarcely have the glorious hallelujahs of the last chorus died away ere the beautiful strains of the air, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth,' are ringing in our ears; from this we are led to the chorus, 'Worthy is the Lamb,' indicating the glorification of the sacrifice, and the marvellous concluding chorus of the 'Amen,' which strikingly portrays the unified assent of heaven and earth to the Godhead of Christ.

On the occasion of the first performance of the 'Messiah' in London, at which the King was present, the vast audience were so impressed by the grandeur of the music and the reverence which it inspired that when the 'Hallelujah Chorus' began, and the words, 'For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth,' rang out, they one and all, including the King, sprang to their feet as if by a given signal, and stood until the last notes of the chorus had been sounded. From that time forward it has been the custom at performances of the oratorio to stand during the 'Hallelujah Chorus.'

No other sacred musical work has been the means of securing for the sick and needy so much relief as that which the 'Messiah' has effected by its frequent performances in various parts of England and on the Continent. Handel, as we have seen, gave the proceeds of its first performance to help the sick and miserable, and his good example has been followed by many others. Later on his compassion was aroused by the poor, helpless little inmates of the Foundling Hospital. We all know the Foundling Hospital, in Guilford Street, Russell Square, but perhaps we do not all know why it is that Handel's portrait is there accorded the place of honour, or why the foundlings should hold the composer's memory in such reverence. Handel did not, it is true, establish the hospital; it was founded in 1741 by one Captain Coram, out of the profits of a trading vessel of which he was the master. But nine years later (in 1750) he presented the hospital with a fine organ, and, in order to inaugurate the opening of the instrument, he announced that he would perform upon it the music of the 'Messiah.' So great was the demand for seats upon this occasion that it was found necessary to repeat the performance. Handel afterwards presented a manuscript score of the oratorio to the Foundling, and undertook to give an annual performance of the work for the benefit of the charity. Eleven performances under his direction were given at the Foundling before his death, by which a sum of L6,955 was added to the hospital funds. Nor did this good work cease with the composer's death, for we learn that the annual performances continued to be given, and that seventeen of these brought the total amount by which the 'Messiah' benefited the hospital up to L10,299, a fact which of itself speaks volumes for the appreciation in which the oratorio was held.

In connection with the gift of the 'Messiah' score to the Foundling an amusing story is told, which serves to illustrate the imperiousness of Handel's temper. The directors of the hospital were desirous of retaining for themselves the exclusive right to perform the 'Messiah,' and with this idea they sought to obtain an Act of Parliament confirming their rights. When Handel heard of the proposal, however, he burst out in a rage with, 'Te teufel! for what sall de Foundlings put mein moosic in de Parliament? Te teufel! mein moosic sall not go to de Parliament!' And it is hardly necessary to add that 'de moosic' did not go to 'de Parliament.'

It is difficult, within the compass of this little story, to convey a just idea of the extraordinary amount of work which Handel's life comprised. One oratorio after another followed the 'Messiah,' none of them entitled to rank with that great work for either loftiness of subject or grandeur of expression, yet many containing passages of unrivalled beauty. 'Jephtha,' which was the last oratorio he composed, contains the magnificent recitative, 'Deeper and deeper still,' and the beautiful song, 'Waft her, angels.' It was while writing 'Jephtha' that Handel became blind, but, though greatly affected by this loss, it did not daunt his courage or lessen his power of work. He was then in his sixty-eighth year, and had lived down most of the hostility which formerly had been so rife against him. Who, indeed, could for long withstand so imperious a will, backed by such unquenchable genius? With increased fame, moreover, his fortunes had built themselves up once more, so that when he died he left L20,000 to be disposed of by his executors.

The range of Handel's compositions was gigantic; there was no branch of the art which his genius did not penetrate and adorn, but it is as a writer of choruses that his power is seen at its best. 'No one,' writes Mr. Julian Marshall, in his biography of the composer, 'before or since has so well understood how to extract from a body of voices such grand results by such artfully simple means as those he used.' No master, we may add, has given us music which expresses with greater clearness, beauty, or force the passages of Scripture it is intended to illumine than that which is to be found in the choral parts of Handel's oratorios. Handel was the greatest master of counterpoint the world has ever seen, and this power enabled him to give musical expression to written words with an ease and fluency which can only be described as marvellous. Yet it is not its marvellous character which strikes us when we hear his work for the first time so much as its oneness with the subject it portrays; we feel that it is like some grand painting, in which colour and form are so charmingly blended as to make a perfect and indivisible whole.

It is often alleged that Handel copied from other composers, and that such was the case there is abundant evidence to show. It must be remembered, however, that in his day people did not attach to originality of ideas the value which we allow to them now. Handel, however, did more than this: he not only borrowed ideas or themes which—to a great extent, at least—were regarded as common property, but he actually embodied in some of his works entire passages taken from the compositions of comparatively unknown composers. For this no justification is possible; nor, on the other hand, can it be urged that Handel stole other men's brains because he lacked power to use his own. The only thing that it seems possible to say by way of explaining a practice which must be condemned as dishonest is that Handel in all probability did not realise his offence or view it in the light in which we view it at the present day. Everything in his life and character argues against the idea of his committing an action which he held to be mean or dishonest. No man could have been more fearlessly independent, either in thought or action, and, whatever other faults he possessed, his character has always been regarded as strictly honourable.

Handel was a big man, with a very commanding presence and a fiery temper, which, as we have seen, was apt to explode at trifles. He did not hesitate to launch the most virulent abuse at the heads of those who ventured to talk whilst he was conducting, and at such times not even the presence of royalty could make him restrain his anger. But when Handel raved the Princess of Wales would turn to her friends, and say softly, 'Hush, hush! Handel is angry.' He had a rooted dislike to hearing his orchestra tune up in his presence, and he gave strict orders that the performers were to get this business over before he arrived. One night, however, when the Prince of Wales was to be present, a wag gained access to the orchestra and secretly untuned every instrument. When the Prince arrived and the audience were all seated, Handel 'gave the signal to begin con spirito, when such a discord arose that the enraged musician started from his seat, overturned the double-bass, seized a kettledrum, threw it at the leader of the orchestra, and lost his wig. He advanced bareheaded to the front of the orchestra, but was so choked with passion that he could not speak. Here he stood, staring and stamping, amidst general convulsions of laughter, until the Prince presently, with much difficulty, appeased his wrath, and prevailed on him to resume his seat.'

Handel's fondness for the pleasures of the table was one of the weaknesses which his enemies did not fail to make the most of, and which has given rise to more than one story. For instance, it is told that he went into a dining-house one day and ordered 'dinner for three.' The waiter, having received the order, disappeared, and was absent so long that Handel lost patience, and, ringing the bell, demanded to know why the meal was delayed. 'Sir,' replied the waiter, 'I was awaiting the arrival of the company.' 'De gompany!' cried the famished musician, in a voice which made the glasses jingle, and caused the waiter to start back in dismay, 'I am de gompany!'

Dr. Burney, the eminent musician and friend of Handel, has described the composer's countenance as having been 'full of fire and dignity.' 'His general look,' continues the doctor, 'was somewhat heavy and sour, but when he did smile it was the sun bursting out of a black cloud. There was a sudden flash of intelligence, wit, and good humour beaming in his countenance which I hardly ever saw in any other.' His sense of humour was keen, and he could relish a joke—especially when it was not directed towards himself. When visiting Dublin he was accompanied by the celebrated violinist Dubourg, who was engaged to play at his performances. One evening Dubourg was delighting the audience with an extempore cadenza, and wandered so far away from the original key that he found it no easy matter to return to it. At length, after some moments of suspense, the shake was heard which announced that the violinist was about to return to the theme; Handel thereupon looked up from the harpsichord, and, in a voice loud enough to be heard throughout the hall, exclaimed, with significant emphasis, 'Velcome home again, Mr. Dubourg!'

In bringing our story of Handel's life to a close, we are tempted to make a brief comparison between Handel and that other great master who lived and worked at the same time—Sebastian Bach. When we compare the two men we perceive this marked difference between them—namely, that, while Bach evinced a complete indifference with regard to public praise, but a very deep interest in the works of other musicians, Handel cared a great deal for what the public thought of his works, and was too much absorbed in his own music to give much attention to the compositions of others. The one wrote for posterity; he published but little, and it was only when half a century had passed since his death that the musical world awoke to a sense of the inestimable value which attached to the works which that life had produced. Handel, on the other hand, studied the tastes of his own day as regards both sacred and secular music, and devoted the whole of his life to the supply of that demand on the part of the public which he had done so much to create and develop.

Full as was Handel's life as regards the fulfilment of its great object, it was in other ways extremely simple. Few things outside his incessant round of work interested him, but he was fond of going to the theatre, and he had a passion for attending picture sales. Of his charity we have spoken, but we may add that he was always ready to help those in distress, and he helped to found the Society for Aiding Distressed Musicians. The last occasion in which he appeared in public was at a performance of the 'Messiah' at Covent Garden, on April 6, 1759. On the 14th of the same month his death took place at the house in Brook Street where he had resided for many years. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a grand monument was later on erected to his memory. His chief manuscripts came into the possession of King George III., and are preserved in the musical library at Buckingham Palace.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Rockstro's 'Life of G.F. Handel,' 1883.

[4] Grove's 'Dictionary of Music.'

[5] It is a fact that this stupendous work was completed in twenty-four days!

[6] In the manuscript score preserved at Buckingham Palace the symphony is marked 'Pifa,' a shortening of the Italian word 'Pifferare,' to play on the fife.



HANDEL'S PRINCIPAL COMPOSITIONS

8 ORATORIOS, etc. La Resurrezione (1708); two Passions (1704 and 1716); Acis and Galatea (1720); Esther (1720); Deborah (1733); Athalia (1733); Alexander's Feast (1736); Saul (1738); Israel in Egypt (1738); Ode for St. Cecilia's Day (1739); L'Allegro, il Penseroso, ed il Moderato (1740); The Messiah (1741); Samson (1741); Joseph (1743); Semele (1743); Belshazzar (1744); Hercules (1744); Occasional Oratorio (1746); Judas Maccabaeus (1746); Alexander Balus (1747); Joshua (1747); Solomon (1748); Susanna (1748); Theodora (1749); The Choice of Hercules (1750); Jephtha (1751); The Triumph of Time and Truth (1757). Utrecht Te Deum and Jubilate. 1713. 12 Chandos Anthems. 1718-1720. 2 Chandos Te Deums. 1718-1720. 4 Coronation Anthems (Let thy Hand be Strengthened, My Heart is inditing, The King shall Rejoice, and Zadok the Priest). 1727. Funeral Anthem (The Ways of Zion do Mourn). 1737. Dettingen Te Deum. 1743. 40 OPERAS, mostly remembered only by a single aria. The following may be named: Almira (1705); Rodrigo (1707); Agrippina (1709); Rinaldo (1711); Radamisto (1720); Muzio Scaevola (Act III. only—1721); Ottone (1722); Scipione (1726); Admeto (1726); Ezio (1732); Serse (1738). Water Music. 1715. 17 Suites de Pieces for the clavecin. 40 Concertos for various instruments.



HAYDN



HAYDN

The Cathedral of St. Stephen, standing in the central square of Vienna, looked grey and cheerless in the misty atmosphere of a November evening. Evensong had just concluded, the worshippers had dispersed, and the great square itself was silent and deserted, save for one or two hurrying pedestrians crossing it on their homeward way. One of these, however, formed an exception to the rest, for he seemed to be in no hurry to leave the square. On reaching the further side he hesitated, glanced up at the clock, and then, turning about, paced listlessly up and down, as if uncertain whether to go or remain. Not even the rain, which now began to fall in that silent, hopeless fashion which predicts a thoroughly wet evening, appeared to assist the wanderer in coming to a decision. He was a mere stripling, short of stature, shabbily clothed, and with a keen look on his pale face that betokened a want of food and rest.

The square was dimly lighted by lamps stationed at wide intervals, and the shadows cast by the great building effectually concealed the form of the youth as he entered them in the course of his restless walk. It was evident that he was in a state of acute distress, and equally evident that this spot held some peculiar attraction for him, for now and again he cast a glance at the church walls, or lingered beside the closed door which was used by the members of the choir. Presently, as he was passing, the door opened, emitting a stream of yellow light across the wet pavement, and a number of youths sallied forth, talking and laughing together as they came. At the sound of the creaking hinges the destitute boy shrank back into the shadow, as if he were afraid of being recognised—which, indeed, was the case. Nevertheless, on catching a glimpse of one young face, as the figure of its owner almost brushed against him, he could not refrain from exclaiming under his breath, 'Michael!'

So low was the tone in which the name was uttered, that, although the chorister's face, with the light from the doorway falling upon it, was turned for a second in the speaker's direction, the boy failed to grasp the meaning of the sound, and hurried on with his companions; and with a deep sigh the poor wanderer turned away.

At that moment a young man who was crossing the square from the opposite side paused to turn up the collar of his coat. In so doing he became aware that a pair of eyes was regarding him with a sorrowful, appealing gaze from the depths of the shadows. In another moment he had advanced to the youth's side and laid his hand upon his shoulder.

'Joseph! can it be you? Man, how wet you are!' The outcast shivered under the friendly touch. 'What are you doing? Where have you been living?' continued the questioner, drawing the youth into the light of a lamp, and regarding his pale, tired face with astonishment.



'Nothing—nowhere. I am starving, that is all,' was the reply.

'Starving—you! This is Reutter's handiwork,' said the other angrily. 'Have you seen your brother Michael? I met them coming out just now. Was he not with the rest?' he added in a gentler tone, still keeping his hand on the lad's shoulder.

'Yes, he was there; but he didn't see me,' replied the wanderer hesitatingly, adding, 'I was afraid the others might notice my distress.'

The friend bit his lip and seemed to be meditating. At last he spoke. 'Well, see here, Joseph, we cannot stand longer in the rain; come home with me. You know I haven't a palace to offer you, but such as it is you are welcome to a share of it for one night at least.' And so saying he drew Joseph's arm within his own, and, bidding him walk fast, the pair quitted the square.

Well might honest Franz Spangler, who held no higher or more lucrative post than that of tenor singer in the choir of St. Michael's Church, warn his young friend not to expect the luxury of a home replete with comforts. Indeed, anyone comparing the two young men as they threaded the narrow streets leading to Spangler's abode would have found it no easy matter to determine which presented the shabbier appearance; though, having decided this point to his satisfaction, he would have been at no trouble in estimating the sort of house to which the chorister would be likely to introduce his friend.

Situated in the poorest quarter of the town, the house presented a sufficiently poverty-stricken appearance to warrant the meanest opinion being entertained with regard to Spangler's powers of hospitality. The kind-hearted singer was, in fact, almost as poor as the youth whom he had befriended, with the additional responsibility entailed by a wife and child. Nevertheless, to the homeless, starving lad who now followed his protector up the crazy stairs leading to the garret which comprised the latter's home, the chorister seemed by comparison prosperous and well-to-do. Was it not luxury to be invited to seat himself beside the scanty fire burning in the stove, and to feel its warmth slowly penetrating to his chilled bones? Was it not luxury to one who had tramped the streets—those endless, pitiless streets—during the past eight-and-forty hours, without food or shelter, to taste the warm bread-and-milk which his kindly hostess had contrived to eke out of her small stock? Finally, was it not the height of luxury to such an one to stretch his weary limbs beside the dying embers, and sleep the sleep which exhausted nature demanded?

The heart of Spangler might well have been touched by the distress into which his young friend had fallen, seeing that he was already acquainted with some of the circumstances to which his forlorn condition was due. And life had promised so differently for poor Joseph but a short while ago! When, some four years prior to this meeting, he had welcomed the coming of his younger brother Michael to the Cantorei, or choir-school of St. Stephen's, he could not have divined that this brother would, indirectly, be the cause of his being turned adrift into the streets. Yet such was the melancholy fact, and as to the manner in which this was brought about we may properly inquire while the subject of this history lies wrapped in slumber beside the garret stove.

About fifteen leagues to the southward of Vienna, and amidst the marshy flats bordering upon the River Leitha, lies the little village of Rohrau, which derives its name from its situation. At the extreme end of the long, straggling street which comprises the village stands, close to the river banks, a low, thatched building—half house, half cottage—with a wheelwright's shop adjoining. The house stands back a little way from the road, with a patch of greensward before it, on which, in the days to which our story belongs, one might have seen a waggon or two in process of repair, and possibly have caught a glimpse of the worthy wheelwright himself at his work.

Mathias Haydn, master wheelwright, and sexton of the little church standing on the hill outside the village, was in the fullest sense entitled to rank as a worthy: he was not only a deeply religious man, but one who was looked up to and respected by every one in the village and for many a mile around. There was an air of refinement about his home which raised it far above the level of the homes by which it was surrounded. A strong taste for music formed a part of Mathias's nature, and it was shared to a great extent by his wife Maria. Regularly each Sunday evening, when the duties of the day were finished, he would bring out his harp, which he had learnt to play by ear, and accompany himself in songs and hymns. He had a pleasing tenor voice, and sang with great expression. The wife also sang well, and, joining in with her husband on these occasions, their example soon induced the children to add their voices to the concert.

The long winter evenings were those specially devoted to music. It was at one of such times, when the village street was deserted, and the keen wind was sweeping it from end to end, sporting with the snow, lifting it in whirling clouds, and building up drifts at every corner; whilst away on the lonely marshes the ice-bound river lay shimmering in the frosty moonlight, and the blast soughed through the tall reeds and grasses, that the following little scene was being enacted within the kitchen of the wheelwright's cottage.



On the oaken settle next the stove sat a child of about five years of age, following with the closest attention his father's performance on the harp. In his hands were two sticks, with which he was imitating the playing of a violin, keeping accurate time with his bow to the rhythm of the music. The rapt expression on the boy's face was not lost upon the father, and thoughts which more than once had occupied Mathias's mind as he watched his child's clever imitation of the village schoolmaster's playing of the violin were recurring with redoubled force on this occasion. And when the boy lifted up his sweet treble voice in unison with the rest its beauty sent a thrill through the father's heart. His own life had been a keen disappointment with respect to his passionate love for music—a love which had made him yearn to know more of the art for which he had so profound a reverence. Hence the determination that his child should have every chance that he could afford of developing such talents as he possessed gathered strength as he perceived the manifestations of delight on the part of little Joseph every time the harp was produced, and as he noted the quickness and accuracy with which the boy learnt the simple melodies that were played to him. And as time went on these thoughts kindled a hope in the father's breast that his little Joseph might one day become a musician, and perhaps—who could tell?—he might even rise to be a Capellmeister!

Joseph Haydn, the subject of our story and the centre of his father's hopes, was born on March 31, 1732, and had attained his sixth year when the first step towards the settlement of his future was taken by his parents. Previous to this event Mathias had confided to his wife the hopes which he entertained with regard to Joseph's musical career, in the expectation that she would share them. Maria, however, did not incline to her husband's views on the subject. She cherished a strong desire that Joseph should eventually join the priesthood, and fancied that she detected in the boy's reverence for sacred music a natural leaning in that direction.

Matters were at this juncture when an unexpected visit was paid to the cottage by a distant relative named Johann Mathias Frankh, the schoolmaster of Hainburg, a small town about four leagues from Rohrau. Frankh, who was himself a fair musician, happened to visit the family at the moment when they were engaged in their evening concert, and the sight of Joseph with his toy violin at once attracted his attention. The purity and accuracy of the child's singing, moreover, soon convinced the schoolmaster that he had in him the makings of a good musician, and without knowing anything of the parents' wishes or intentions, he immediately proposed that Joseph should be placed under his instruction. 'If you will let Sepperl (the Austrian diminutive for Joseph) come to me,' said he, 'I will take care that he is properly taught. I can see that he promises well.'

Mathias gave a willing consent to the proposition, and Maria's objections having been overruled (she kept to herself the hope that this might, after all, prove to be but a stepping-stone to the fulfilment of her wishes), in a very short time Joseph and his father were seated in the waggon and jogging on their way to Hainburg.

The new world into which Joseph found himself launched had many drawbacks, but one excellent side. His 'cousin,' as he termed Frankh, was a strict but careful teacher, and under his care the boy not only learned to sing well, but also acquired a good deal of knowledge regarding the various musical instruments in use at that time. In other respects, too, his education was looked after; and as his quickness at learning was remarkable, and his cousin did not scruple to employ physical force to enable his pupil to master his difficulties, Joseph made rapid progress, despite the fact that he was often flogged when he should have been fed. The strict discipline to which he was subjected may not have been without its value in inducing habits of method and order in the boy's studies; but in many ways his life was rendered unnecessarily hard. The schoolmaster was a married man, but his wife showed the utmost indifference towards the little fellow who had hoped to find in her a second mother, but who found instead that he was neglected in every way. Next to religion itself, Mathias and Maria had instilled into their children a positive reverence for personal cleanliness. Joseph's distress, therefore, at finding himself bereft of a mother's care became greater day by day as he saw the rents in his clothing passed over and the means of keeping his body in the state to which he had been accustomed unprovided. What this meant to a sensitive child with a rooted aversion to dirt may be imagined; nor were his sufferings in any way reduced by the attention which his destitute, neglected state drew upon him. Try as he might to forget his misery in his books, he could not but be aware of the pitying glances which were cast at him by those whom he encountered in his walks, or who passed by as he sat reading on the step outside his cousin's door.

Though ashamed of his appearance, Joseph was in no danger of losing his self-respect—the love of cleanliness and order had been too deeply implanted to be easily uprooted; moreover, his childish reason whispered to him that the present state of things could not last for ever, and in the meantime he bravely resolved to make the best of it. He was receiving lessons on the clavier and violin, but the training of his voice occupied the foremost place, and when not in school the boy was nearly always to be found in the church, listening to the organ or the singing. In a very short time he had made such progress as to be admitted to the choir, where he joined his sweet young voice in the singing of the Masses.

Already his mind was beginning to feed upon those higher branches of music which his natural gifts enabled him to appreciate. His reverential nature was strongly shown in regard to his music, and it was in the church alone that he could obtain the gratification of a sense which was surely leading him on to greater things. As the days went by he was conscious of a yearning for something that his present surroundings could not supply. His thoughts were constantly travelling towards a city wherein he had centred his hopes, and where he knew he should find his heart's desires. That city was Vienna. It was before his eyes as he stood in the choir of Hainburg Church; it came between him and his book as he sat in the schoolroom conning his lesson; it was in his dreams as he slept, as it was foremost in his thoughts on waking. But Vienna lay afar off; and looking down at his ragged clothing, and reflecting upon the poverty that surrounded him, Joseph wondered if it would ever be possible for him to realise his dream.

'Sepperl, come here; I want you.' It was his cousin Frankh's voice, calling to him as he was leaving the schoolroom one morning. 'There is to be a procession through the town next week, in honour of a respected citizen who died yesterday. They have asked me to supply a drummer, and I thought of you at once. Come, I will show you how to make the stroke,' and, taking Joseph by the hand, he led him into the yard where, having improvised a drum by turning a tub bottom uppermost, Frankh placed a stick in the boy's hand and bade him beat the time of a march. A few attempts sufficed to convince Frankh of his pupil's proficiency, and Joseph was duly installed in the drummer's place. Owing, however, to his small stature, it was found necessary to call in the help of a schoolboy of his own height, and as this boy happened to be a hunchback, he was enabled to carry the drums on his back at the proper level for Joseph to beat them. The comical effect thus produced proved too much for the gravity of many of the bystanders, but Joseph went through his business with solemnity, secretly deriving much pleasure from this public exhibition of his skill, and thereafter he always retained an affection for the instrument as well as a knowledge of how it should be played.[7]

Haydn had just completed the second year of his school life at Hainburg, when an event happened which brought the realisation of his dreams suddenly within his grasp. The Capellmeister of St. Stephen's Cathedral, in Vienna, George Reutter, was paying a visit to his friend, the pastor of Hainburg, and in the course of conversation he mentioned that he was in want of some good voices for the cathedral choir. 'Then I think I can find you one at least,' replied his friend; 'he is a scholar of Frankh's, the schoolmaster here, and possesses an excellent voice. Shall we send for him?' Reutter agreed, and a message was accordingly dispatched to Frankh.

In due course the schoolmaster appeared, leading Haydn by the hand, and the pair were ushered into the presence of Reutter.

The Capellmeister eyed the boy kindly, and, drawing him to his knee, said, 'Well, my little fellow, can you make a shake?'

Joseph looked up brightly. 'No, sir; but, then, no more can my cousin Frankh here.'

Reutter laughed at this outspokenness, and then, telling Haydn to attend to him, he proceeded to show him how the shake was to be performed. After a few attempts Joseph succeeded in satisfying his instructor, who praised him for his quickness. During the experiment the boy's eyes had been fixed on a dish of cherries standing on the pastor's table. Reutter, perceiving the longing thus silently expressed, reached out his hand for the dish, and telling Joseph that he had earned his reward, he emptied the contents into the boy's pockets.

Haydn was next requested to sing a portion of a Mass which he knew by heart, and when this trial was finished the Capellmeister expressed his willingness to take him into the Cantorei of St. Stephen's.

The boy's heart leapt within him as he heard the words. It was so unexpected; it seemed almost too good to be true! Then suddenly the thought of his ragged clothing swept across his mind, and the tears started to his eyes. Surely, they would never admit such an urchin as he to the famous choir-school! Reutter, however, did not seem to heed his untidy state, and Haydn took heart of hope that after all this might be remedied. In the letter which he wrote to his parents, asking for their consent, he included an appeal for money wherewith to purchase new clothing. Mathias had a large family to support on his slender earnings, but he contrived to send a few florins for the purpose, and as both parents at the same time gave a willing assent to his leaving Hainburg, Joseph felt that every obstacle to the fulfilment of his happiness had now been removed. The parting with his teacher, however, was not accomplished without some regrets, for, after all, Frankh, despite his severity, had done well by his pupil, and that pupil was not slow in expressing his gratitude for all that he owed to his relative's instruction.

Possibly, if Joseph could have looked across the leagues which lay between him and the city to which he was journeying with a power of prophetic vision that enabled him to realise a portion of the future that awaited him, he might have experienced some degree of misgiving. But, happily for him, no cloud arose to obscure the sunny picture which his imagination had drawn of the life that was opening before him. Roseate, indeed, were the hues in which his fancy had painted that picture, and foremost of all the objects that it contained was the famous cathedral, with its magnificent spire pointing into the clouds, its richly-sculptured stones, its glorious nave, flanked by noble pillars, and its lofty vaulted roof, echoing to the voices of the choir, or reverberating to the notes of the organ, the whole flooded by the soft light falling from the painted windows. To picture all this from the descriptions which had been given to him was to conjure up a vision of indescribable beauty. And then, the Cantorei itself—had not his cousin Frankh assured him that he would be taught singing and to play the clavier and violin by the best masters, in addition to Latin, writing, and cyphering? Lastly, there was the life which went on outside the cathedral and the choir-school—the life of a city within whose walls music had established a home, wherein she flourished as nowhere else in the wide world could she be said to flourish.



All this, and more, had the eight-year-old musician learnt from conversation and report during his two years' sojourn at Hainburg; and of all this was he thinking as he travelled to Vienna with a heart and mind yearning to enter into the joys and labours of such an existence.

With what fervour he embarked upon his studies at the Cantorei, as well as how quickly he progressed under the care of his teachers, may be imagined. Child though he was, nothing in the shape of learning came hard to him, and difficulties seemed to be created only in order to be successfully overcome. Very soon came the desire to compose; but just here the toughest obstacle of all, perhaps, presented itself—the studies comprised no instruction in counterpoint. Still, Joseph was not to be daunted. Seizing upon every scrap of music-paper that he could find, he covered it with notes. 'If only the paper is nice and full, it must be right,' he said to himself, as he bent his energies to the task.

Reutter, however, gave him no encouragement to proceed in this direction. 'What are you about, Haydn?' inquired the Capellmeister one day, as he lighted upon the boy suddenly in the midst of a composition. Joseph looked up with a flush mantling in his cheeks. 'I am composing, sir,' he answered. 'Let me see it,' requested the master. It was a sketch of a 'Salve Regina' for twelve voices. Reutter glanced at the work, and then tossed it back. 'Why don't you try to write it for two voices before attempting it in twelve?' was his only comment, uttered in a sharp tone, in which sarcasm was too plainly apparent. Joseph blushed deeper than before. 'Oh,' he said simply; it was all he could say, for the master's sneer had struck home. 'And if you must try your hand at composition,' continued Reutter in a somewhat kinder tone than before, as he observed the tears spring to the boy's eyes, 'let me advise you to write variations on the motets and vespers which are played in the church.' With this parting piece of counsel he passed on, leaving poor Haydn as much in the dark as before with regard to how he ought to proceed. 'If only he would instruct me in counterpoint, how I would thank him!' was the thought uppermost in Joseph's mind, as he put his despised work out of sight.

But no instruction in the art of composition was forthcoming from either the Capellmeister or any of the teachers, and Haydn was thrown back upon his own resources. He possessed the talent, however, as well as the perseverance, and of neither of these qualifications could they dispossess him, and so, taking to heart Reutter's well-meant admonition, he set to work afresh. His resources in the shape of pocket-money were almost nil, yet by dint of scraping and denying himself he managed to save sufficient to purchase two volumes, upon the outsides of which his eyes had often feasted as the books lay temptingly displayed upon the shelf of the second-hand bookseller. One of these works was Fux's 'Gradus ad Parnassum' (a treatise on composition and counterpoint), and the other Mattheson's 'Vollkommene Capellmeister' (the Complete Chapel-master).



Precious indeed were these hardly-acquired volumes. Every moment that could be snatched from schoolwork or choir-practice was devoted to mastering the difficulties of the 'Gradus,' and in acquiring knowledge concerning the high office which he had secretly set his heart upon obtaining. There was unconscious humour in the fact that, following upon Reutter's reproof to his over-ambitious strivings, the chorister should have set himself to study the duties of his master's post. Yet the temptation to smile is checked by the thought of the lonely student giving up his play-hours to self-imposed study, battling in grim earnest with problems that might well have turned the edge of a determination less keen than that which was set to conquer them, and battling thus unassisted and often, no doubt, against the craving for food and fresh air which is inseparable from boyhood.

It would be wrong, however, to suppose that Haydn absented himself wholly from his companions and their merry games. There was within him a soul for play as well as for work, and there were occasions when the spirit of mischief obtained the ascendancy. The choir was frequently required to perform in the Royal Chapel when the Court was in residence at Schoenbrunn. The palace there had been newly erected, and the workmen had not removed the scaffolding, a fact which was hailed with delight by the choir-boys as affording an unlooked-for means of relaxation. One after another climbed the poles, each striving to outdo the rest in attaining the highest point. In vain did the Empress Maria Theresa, who had perceived them from her windows, issue prohibitions and threaten dire punishment to the offenders—the sport went on unchecked. At length a moment arrived when Joseph, who had beaten his companions by climbing to the top of the tallest pole, and was daring them to come up to him, was detected by the Empress in the very act. The Hofcompositor was sent for, and the figure of Haydn rocking himself to and fro on the pole duly pointed out. 'Give that fair-haired blockhead einen recenten Schilling' (slang for a 'good hiding'); 'he is the ringleader of them all,' said the Empress. The descent of Joseph from his elevated perch, and the descent of the Hofcompositor's rod, were events which speedily followed the royal command.

A love of fun formed an essential part of Haydn's nature, but music came before anything else. Even when playing with his fellow-choristers in the cathedral square he would break away from the game at the first sound of the organ, and enter the church to listen. His desire to perfect himself in music was so strong that to the ordinary hours of study and practice he voluntarily added several more each day, with the result that he was often working sixteen or eighteen hours out of the twenty-four.

Five years had passed amidst these happy surroundings when Haydn awoke one morning with the joyous thought that that day was to witness the arrival of his younger brother Michael at the Cantorei. How eagerly he had looked forward to this break in his life, with what zeal he had planned how he was to assist Michael in his work, when he had smoothed the young one's entry, helped him over his shyness, and shown him all the delightful scenes and circumstances which his new life would comprise. It had infused new vigour into his resolutions, and fired him with fresh ardour for his own work, this coming of his brother to share with him the pleasures which he had possessed for so long alone.

Joseph's unselfish and generous feelings may have helped to blind his vision to the little cloud which, almost from the moment when Michael's pure young treble notes first soared aloft into the cathedral's vast recesses, had begun to shut out some of the sunshine that had gladdened his own existence. Certain it is that he had no inkling of the sorrow which his brother's advent was destined to bring upon him. Michael's progress was remarkably rapid, and it was soon apparent that Joseph's prospects were as surely declining. The voice which hitherto had enabled him to hold the chief place in the choir showed signs of breaking, and one after another of the solo parts which formerly he alone had been selected to sing were assigned to the new chorister. Joseph's failing powers were unmistakably betrayed when he sang before the Court, and, though intended only as a joke, the Empress's remark to Reutter that Haydn's singing had come to resemble the crowing of a cock, sufficed to open the Capellmeister's eyes to the fact that Joseph must be put back. Consequently, at the celebration of St. Leopold in the presence of the Emperor and Empress, the singing of the 'Salve Regina' fell to the lot of Michael, whose rendering so entranced his royal hearers that they presented the young chorister with a sum of twenty ducats.

To no one could it have been plainer than to poor Joseph himself that the sun of his glory at St. Stephen's had set never to rise again. His place was now virtually taken by the brother whose coming he had welcomed, and the royal favours which heretofore had been allotted to him were transferred to Michael for good. Mortified as he must have felt at the slight thus accorded to him, Haydn cherished no feelings of resentment towards the brother by whom he had been supplanted. He had the good sense to attribute his misfortune to his failing voice alone and to fall back upon the belief in his own powers to make his way as a musician, which formed his one unfailing resource and comfort during those darkening hours.

How long Haydn might have remained at the Cantorei, in spite of his breaking voice, and the consequent lessening of his importance as a member of the choir, cannot be told; but an incident which happened at this period settled his future as far as St. Stephen's was concerned, in a manner as summary as it was unexpected.

It is odd that Haydn's actual dismissal from the school must be laid at the door of his love of fun, and that one who was so hard-working and so wrapped up in his music should have been unable to resist the temptation to play off a practical joke upon one of his colleagues under the very eyes of the Capellmeister. Nevertheless, such was the case, and a bright new pair of scissors, which had found their way into his possession, was the means by which Joseph executed his joke, and at the same time severed his connection with the Cantorei. It was the fashion in those days for boys to wear pigtails, and Haydn's gaze was one day riveted upon the movements of a pigtail belonging to the chorister seated immediately in front of him. The pigtail was twitched to and fro, or jerked up and down, in accordance with the movements of its owner's head, with a vivacity which was at once fascinating and exasperating to behold. The new scissors were being opened and closed in Joseph's fingers—the itching to cut something was too strong to be resisted—the tantalising pigtail was twitching under his very nose—and the next moment, ere the owner of the scissors could realise the crime he was committing, the once active pigtail lay as dead as any doornail upon the floor.

The punishment meted out to Haydn for this offence was slight—a mere caning on the hand; but the indignity and disgrace of being caned before the whole school was not to be borne. He pleaded for forgiveness: 'Rather than submit to such a disgrace he would leave the school.' Reutter had for long been seeking an excuse for turning the lad adrift; a chorister without a voice was useless to him, and here was his chance. 'You must take your caning first, and then you shall have your dismissal,' he said, with cruel meaning in his tone, for he knew Haydn's spirit.

Joseph underwent the disgrace, and then, whilst the physical pain of it yet lingered, he packed up his two precious volumes, placed the remainder of his belongings on his brother's bed, and choking back the rage that was almost suffocating him, he walked quickly out of the building into the street.

* * * * *



Having thus related the manner in which our hero was launched upon the sea of adversity, without means of subsistence, and with no better companion in his misery than the wrath aroused by the sense of his harsh and unjust treatment, we must return to the point at which we left him stretched beside the stove in Spangler's garret. At the same time we desire to correct an impression which the reader may have formed from the opening portion of our story that, at the moment of his chancing upon this friend in need, Joseph was longing to return to the comfortable quarters which he had quitted in such fiery haste. Such an impression would be far from representing the true state of Haydn's feelings at the time. He had, indeed, hoped to encounter Michael—to speak a word with him, to beg of him, in fact, a crust of bread; but his heart failed him when he saw his brother amongst his companions, and pride stepped in as well to prevent him from exposing his distress to so many curious eyes. Thus far he had yielded to the promptings of hunger, but his resolution not to re-enter the school had stood firm, in spite of the cravings of nature, in spite of his friendless position, in spite of the long dreary vista of want which the past eight-and-forty hours had opened to his eyes. He had acted upon the impulse of the moment, but the bitterness of the cause which prompted that action remained—nay, more, it was already acting like a tonic upon a nature disciplined to look difficulties bravely in the face. Those few hours of sound sleep put new life into his frame, and when he awoke it was with the resolve to refrain from any further attempt to see his brother, lest his desperate condition should unsettle the younger one and render him unhappy. It would be a hard, uphill fight, but he would fight it alone—not even his parents should hear of him again unless he succeeded.

'Now, Joseph, what do you propose to do?' was the inquiry of his host, when the morning fast had been broken by a porringer of bread-and-milk. 'Have you made up your mind to go back to the school? or will you send word to your people that you intend to return home?'

'I will never go back to the school,' answered Joseph firmly, 'and as for going home, that is even further from my intentions than the other.' And then he told his friend of the poverty which reigned at home in consequence of the large and growing family, and the disgrace which he should feel in casting himself as a burden upon those he loved, especially after what had occurred. 'Sooner than do that,' he exclaimed, 'I would rather starve in the streets. But, indeed, I believe it will not be so bad as that; I have made up my mind to support myself by music, and I will never give in!'

Now Spangler, albeit a man of humble attainments, and a being, moreover, who had set no very high ideals before his eyes, was not, as we have seen, destitute of the quality of sympathy, nor could he entirely obliterate from his memory a time when he himself had been fired by a spark of ambition, and had recognised a longing to accomplish something great. True, the spark had been but a feeble one at best, and the unceasing demands upon his powers to supply the bare necessaries of life, occasioned by an early and imprudent marriage, had done their best to crush it out of existence. Nevertheless, the memory of that time remained, and being freshly stirred by the contemplation of his young friend's forlorn state, it united itself with the stronger germ of sympathy, and blossomed out into a generous proposal that Haydn should continue to occupy a corner of his garret until such time as he could obtain employment.

Haydn gratefully accepted the kindly offer, assuring Spangler that he would repay his hospitality both in money and thanks. He gave this assurance in the belief that its fulfilment could only be a question of a short time. But many weary months, spent in fruitless applications for employment and equally futile endeavours to secure pupils, were destined to pass ere the first vestiges of success made themselves apparent. Haydn was now seventeen, and possessed of the appetite of a schoolboy; how to satisfy his natural cravings, therefore, must have been almost as difficult a problem as that of obtaining work. The rigours of an Austrian winter, too, added not a little to his miseries, ill-fed and thinly clad as he was, but still he struggled on, hopeful that the advent of spring would bring good luck with the sunshine.

Spring came at last, and found him still without means of subsistence, yet not without the solace of hope. Notwithstanding the uncongeniality of his surroundings, he had found opportunities for study, and never had his treasured volumes seemed more precious to him than during those long winter months, when despair haunted him like a shadow from which there seemed no means of escape. His sole earnings had been the pence flung to him from the windows as he stood singing in the snow-covered streets, either alone or in the company of other youths as destitute as himself. But now spring had come; the glorious sun had chased away the snow and the biting frost, and the poor chorister felt its genial rays quickening the life-blood in his veins, and awakening his cramped muscles to action. It is only the pinched and starved human beings of this great Northern Hemisphere who really know what a beneficent food-giver is the sun.

One morning, as Haydn stood idly wondering what he should do next, a procession of men and women, headed by several priests, passed by, bound for the shrine of the Virgin at Mariazell. Struck with an idea, Haydn joined the cavalcade, and on reaching the church in which the pilgrims were to assemble, he sought out the choirmaster, and, telling him how and where he had been trained, begged for employment. With a contemptuous glance at the ex-chorister's ragged clothing, however, the master bade him begone, saying 'that he had had enough of lazy rascals such as he coming from Vienna to seek for work.' The tears started to the lad's eyes as he turned away. Would nobody hold out a helping hand? He had been speculating upon this opportunity as he trudged along the road until it seemed almost a certainty; and must this cup, too, be dashed from his lips?

A few minutes later he perceived the choristers entering the church by a side-door, and, emboldened by hunger, he slipped in amongst them, donned a surplice, and took his place in the stalls. Finding himself next to the principal soloist, he requested that he might be allowed to share the latter's copy. The request was indignantly refused, but Haydn, who knew the service almost by heart, resolved to await his opportunity. When the moment arrived for the singing of the solo, he snatched the copy from the chorister's hands, and, lifting up his voice, sang the part with such exquisite finish and beauty of expression as to electrify the rest of the choir and excite the admiration of the master.

At the conclusion of the service Haydn was sent for by the choirmaster, who, after expressing his regret for his former abruptness, asked him to stay with them until the following day. Poor starving Haydn was only too glad to accept the invitation, and when the morrow arrived he was told that he might extend his stay for several days longer. When, therefore, he finally returned to Vienna, it was with a small sum of money jingling in his pockets and a frame invigorated by a liberal supply of such food as it had not been his privilege to taste since the day when he quitted the Cantorei of St. Stephen's.

It was the first gleam of sunshine that had crossed his path since those happy days, and it served to dispel some of the gloomy desperation which, during the long, dark days of winter, had laid constant siege to his resolutions, which had, indeed, once or twice nearly shaken them from that bed-rock of belief in his own unaided powers which, coupled with his simple faith in God, had sustained him and sent him forward from day to day. Often had he lain, shivering and famished, beneath his scanty coverlet in the corner of the garret allotted to him, watching the stars shining through the skylight above his head, and praying, with all the earnestness of a warrior-knight of the Middle Ages, for strength to battle with the temptation of despair. If music—the music that raises and ennobles, that strengthens, and uplifts the soul of man to heights which bring him nearer and ever nearer to a true conception of God—were destined to find a voice in Haydn's soul, that music must have owed its inception to those midnight hours of silent communion—those struggles with natural want—which were passed beneath the rafters of his miserable lodging.

And gradually his determination prevailed. The tide of fortune sent some ripples of success to his feet. A few pupils were induced by the trifling charge which he made to let him give them lessons on the clavier; a like desire for economy probably induced others to employ his services occasionally as violin-player at balls and other entertainments; whilst one or two aspirants for musical honours permitted him to undertake the revision and arrangement of their compositions at a small fee. Such cheering signs of improved prospects, feeble in themselves, assumed in Haydn's eyes the aspect of rewards for which he could not be sufficiently grateful.

And then the tide of success came with something like a rush. A worthy tradesman, named Buchholz, who loved music, and had occasionally invited Haydn to sing and play to him after business hours, was touched by his distress, and as a proof of his faith in the struggling musician's honour, as well as with a desire to help him on his way, he lent him the sum of a hundred and fifty florins, to be repaid, without interest, when opportunity permitted.

To Haydn such a sum seemed a veritable fortune, and, indeed, it brought with it the power of effecting great changes in his life. He was now enabled to quit the tenement of Spangler and take a garret of his own, or what was, in truth, a portion partitioned off from a larger garret. As an exchange the new abode was not without its drawbacks. Semi-darkness prevailed even at midday; there was no stove, and as the summer had come and gone and winter was once more upon the city its discomforts were speedily made manifest by the rain and snow, which found their way through the broken roof. Nor were his neighbours in the least inclined to respect his desire for quietude. Nevertheless, in spite of these hardships, Haydn was happy—'too happy,' as he himself put it, 'to envy the lot of Kings'; for had he not added to his priceless treasures the first six sonatas of Emmanuel Bach, which he lost no time in mastering? More than this, he had become the possessor of a little clavier—a poor, worm-eaten instrument, it is true, but one which brought much solace to him in his loneliness.

On the third story of the house in which Haydn was living lodged an Italian poet of some celebrity—Metastasio by name—between whom and the friendless ex-chorister an acquaintance sprang up which resulted in Haydn's introduction as music-teacher to the poet's favourite pupil, Marianne Martinez. Upon the heels of this piece of good fortune followed a second. Through Metastasio's interest Haydn became acquainted with Nicolo Porpora, the most eminent teacher of singing and composition of his day, who was at the time giving singing-lessons to Marianne. But before sufficient time had elapsed for the latter introduction to produce any definite result, Haydn had found employment in a new and unlooked-for direction.

It was a common fashion in Vienna at that day for poor and struggling musicians to earn a few florins by serenading personages of note in the town; but as the number of would-be serenaders was always far in excess of the number of celebrities who aspired to be thus honoured, the pecuniary advantages, as a rule, were very small. It happened, however, that Felix Kurz, the manager of one of the principal Viennese theatres, had lately married a beautiful woman, whose charms were the theme of conversation in fashionable circles, and it occurred to Haydn and two of his companions to serenade the lady with music of the former's own composing. Accordingly, the trio repaired one night to Madame Kurz's windows and began their performance. Presently the door opened, and the figure of Kurz appeared, enfolded in a dressing-gown. Beckoning to Haydn, he inquired, 'Whose music is that which you were playing just now?' 'My own,' replied the serenader. 'Indeed!' responded Kurz, opening his eyes in surprise. 'Then just step inside, if you please,' Haydn obeyed wonderingly, and having been first introduced to madame, who complimented him on his performance, he was conducted by the manager to the parlour, where refreshments were produced for himself and his companions. 'Come and see me to-morrow,' said Kurz to Haydn at parting. 'I think I have some work for you.'

When Haydn put in an appearance on the following day the manager at once proceeded to business. He explained that he had just written a comic opera, to which he had given the title of 'The Devil on Two Sticks,' and was looking out for a musician to set it to music. He had been struck by Haydn's serenade on the previous night, and believed that he would do. 'Now,' he continued, 'there is a tempest scene at sea for which appropriate music is needed. Let me hear what you would suggest.'



Haydn seated himself at the harpsichord, but as he had never seen the sea in his life, he felt at a loss how to begin. After trying a few chords he mentioned his difficulty to Kurz. 'Oh, I haven't seen it, either,' responded the manager airily; 'but I imagine it is something like this'—and he began to throw his arms into the air as he paced up and down. 'Picture a mountain rising, then a valley sinking; then a second mountain, and another valley—mountains and abysses following one another—there you are!'

In vain Haydn grappled with the subject—trying it in fifths, in fourths, then in octaves—the excited manager meanwhile tossing his arms about, and shouting and gesticulating. It was all to no purpose. At length, losing all patience, Haydn cried, 'The devil take the tempest!' at the same moment plumping his hands with a crash on to the extreme ends of the keyboard, and then rapidly bringing them together. 'That's it, that's it! You've got it now!' cried the delighted Kurz, springing at the astonished composer and embracing him with fervour.

From that moment all went well, and the opera was completed to the author's satisfaction, albeit Haydn, glad as he was to receive his reward, felt that he had little cause for self-congratulation at the results from a musicianly point of view. The opera was duly produced, and received with some measure of approval; but its life was no longer than its merits deserved, and Haydn himself was not desirous of delaying its interment, for he had higher work in view.

We must now return to his acquaintanceship with Porpora. The singing-master had observed Haydn's skill in playing the harpsichord, and thinking that he saw his way to turning the poor musician's abilities to a useful purpose, he offered to employ him as accompanist. Haydn gladly accepted the proposal, hoping that he would thus be enabled to pick up something of the master's method. Though ostensibly engaged to play the accompaniments of Porpora's songs when the latter was giving his pupils their lessons, Joseph soon found that he was regarded in no higher light than that of an ordinary serving-man. The discovery of this fact, however, occasioned him no dismay, nor did he exhibit the slightest repugnance at being called upon to clean his master's shoes, brush his coat, or dress his periwig. In vain did the sour old man hurl such epithets as 'fool,' 'blockhead,' 'dolt,' at his musical valet in return for the latter's attempts to minister to his personal comforts. Haydn's sole object was to be near Porpora in order that he might garner each crumb of knowledge—each hint, however small—that the great man chanced to let fall from his stores of learning; and the master, noting his perseverance and also the gentleness with which he took his buffetings and sarcasms, gradually softened towards his dependent, and, beginning by giving him a stray piece of advice now and then, ended by answering all his questions, and setting him right where he needed correction in his compositions. To crown all, Porpora brought Haydn under the notice of the nobleman in whose house he was teaching, with the result that, when the nobleman took his family to the baths of Mannersdorf for several months, Haydn, to his delight, was allowed to accompany the party in the capacity of Porpora's accompanist.

This piece of good fortune proved to be the turning-point in his career, for the eminent musicians whom he met at Mannersdorf not only received him very kindly, but evinced the greatest interest in his compositions, many of which were performed during this visit. His acquaintance with one of these musicians—a well-known violinist named Dittersdorf—ripened into friendship, and led to Haydn's receiving violin lessons at this master's hands. Another solid advantage accruing from his association with Porpora lay in the fact that the nobleman himself, struck by Haydn's progress, and desirous of helping on one who showed so great a talent for art, allotted him a pension of six sequins (L3) a month. Haydn's action on receiving the first instalment of this generous bounty was consistent with his desire to maintain a neat appearance, as well as an indication of the distress which his privations had hitherto caused him to suffer: he instantly repaired to the nearest tailor's and purchased a suit of black.

On his return to Vienna fortune continued to smile upon him, as if anxious to atone for her neglect in the past. One after another sought his aid in teaching and composing, with the result that he was enabled to raise his terms and move into decent lodgings. His struggles, if not actually ended, had become so lightened as to leave his mind free to pursue the higher walks of his art in comparative peace. From another quarter, too, the hand of friendship was extended to him. He received a summons to present himself at the house of the Countess Thun, whose devotion to music was only equalled by her generous patronage of those in whom she discerned the signs of genius. The Countess had lately heard one of Haydn's clavier sonatas performed, manuscript copies of which had, in accordance with the custom prevailing amongst unknown composers, been sent to the houses of the aristocracy, and, being charmed with the beauty of the work, she had inquired the name of the composer, with the object of engaging his services.

It is probable that the Countess had formed a very different conception of Haydn's appearance from his work, for she could scarcely conceal her surprise when he was ushered into her presence. That one so ill-dressed and—it must be confessed—so uncouth of manner could be the composer of such charming music seemed impossible. Her face showed this so plainly that Haydn, knowing her generous character, ventured to relate the story of his struggles. As he proceeded with his simple narrative, the Countess's eyes filled with tears. She was one of the noblest of women, and her heart was touched by the reflection that the art which she loved should demand so much sacrifice and suffering from those whose lives were wholly given up to its ennoblement. She had supposed that one who could write such music must have the command of money and the influence of wealthy patrons—yet how different were the facts! Haydn's relation ended, the Countess assured him that thenceforth he might count upon her as his friend and well-wisher as well as pupil, and the happy young musician, having attempted to express his thanks, withdrew with a heart overflowing with gratitude.

A future bright with promise had now dawned for Haydn. His works were to be heard in the best musical circles of Vienna, and praise and encouragement flowed in from every quarter. A wealthy music patron, Karl von Fuernberg, who had recognised his genius, persuaded him to compose his first quartet, and thus turned his attention to the branch of composition in which he was later on to excel. At the instance of this patron Haydn, in 1759, received the appointment of music-director to a rich Bohemian nobleman named Count Ferdinand Morzin, who was an ardent lover of music, and maintained a small orchestra at his country seat. This was a great step in his advancement, and the year which witnessed it is also memorable as having been that in which he composed his first symphony.

Haydn was now twenty-six, and no longer an unknown musician. One point with regard to his compositions had already struck many whose judgment carried weight, and had aroused some criticism on the part of the connoisseurs: this point was their originality. He appeared to have marked out for himself an independent line of work, and to be following it up with a boldness that, in the eyes of certain of his critics, savoured of an open defiance of established rules. But the fact was overlooked by these critics that the circumstances of Haydn's life had thrown him back upon himself and compelled him to be original. His knowledge of counterpoint, to the rules of which he showed a seeming disregard, had been derived almost entirely from self-study. Without a single helping hand to guide him, he had mastered the formidable difficulties of his 'Gradus'; and lighted only by his inborn genius, he had deliberately chosen the path which he felt to be that which would conduct him to the highest levels of his art. The independence thus gained—and which speedily showed itself in all that he wrote—was a possession born of suffering and solitude, though never of ignorance, and as such it represented the truest as well as the freest expression of his musical soul. With the dawn of brighter days he had procured and studied all the works on theory that were to be obtained, only to find himself strengthened in his determination to adhere to the line which those hours of lonely study and reflection had shown him to be the right one for him to adopt. Few, indeed, of those who had risen to be masters in music could claim to have been less influenced by the composers of their own or a previous day than could Joseph Haydn; and the progress of our story will show in what manner opportunity favoured the further growth and development of that independence which even at the present stage had impressed its stamp upon his works.

We must first of all, however, relate what befell our hero in a very different sphere from that in which we have hitherto followed his fortunes.

Some time before the period at which our story has arrived, Haydn had been engaged to teach the harpsichord to the two daughters of a wig-maker named Keller. As the lessons progressed the teacher became conscious of a growing attachment for the younger of his pupils. There was something spiritual about the character of this maiden which appealed strongly to his musical temperament, though probably the loneliness of his life at the time may have added force to his longing to possess her for his wife. His poverty, however, must have convinced him of the hopelessness of declaring himself at the moment, and for some time his love remained as a cherished secret, fed by the hope which formed almost his sole resource. But now that fortune had smiled upon him he ventured to press his cause with assurance—albeit it must be confessed that this assurance rested on no more secure basis than a salary of some twenty pounds a year and the prospect of an extended teaching connection. But his hopes were doomed to disappointment, for the maiden had in the meantime elected to take the veil, prompted so to do, most probably, by the very same leanings which had rendered her nature so attractive to poor Haydn.