figure were enveloped; it looked like death in masquerade, and produced a mixed impression, at once ludicrous and hideous. Viewing the figure, as I did, for the first time, and by the uncertain and wavering light, I must confess, that in my mind the latter emotion predominated.

"It is really too bad,' said I, stepping back, as Chesterton, pressing one of his springs, made the hands rise into the air, somewhat in the style of the Millennian orator of the Caledonian chapel; 'it is really too bad to allow these poor bones no rest, either in life or death. I dare say, their unfortunate owner, whoever he was, little expected that after his labours on earth he was not even to be allowed to sleep in his grave, but was still to be turned to account, and forced to play Pulcinello in a painter's study.'

"I cannot say I was sorry when the entrance of dinner and candles put a stop to our contemplations. My friend replaced the mask and wig, threw the cloak over the figure again, and we took our seats at the table.

"Our conversation was long and earnest. Chesterton, who, in his two year's sojourn in London, had studied both the world and his own art thoroughly, poured out without reserve the results of his studies. He examined my sketches carefully, pointed out with candour and discrimination their merits and defects, suggested the course of study I ought to pursue, and warned me of the many obstacles I should have to contend with, in my own overweening confidence, or the self-love and jealousy of my competitors. As I listened to his strong and forcible observations, I felt myself becoming a humbler and a wiser

man.

"In these discussions, sometimes enlivened, and sometimes saddened, by tales of olden times, and school-boy recollections; of friends who had already closed a brief career on earth, and slept, some under the burning skies of India, some beneath the snows of the Pole, some under the green waves of the ocean, the long November evening wore away. More than once, however, in the course of our conversation, when the candles, neglected in the earnestness of discussion, began to grow a little dim and cabbaged at the top, and the light fell dull and feeble on the farther end of the room, I could hardly refrain from starting, as my eye accidentally rested on the lay-figure in the corner, standing as it had been left with its hands erect, and its outlines faintly discernible beneath its funeral drapery. At last it became late, and I retired to my own lodging.

I practised steadily for two months the lessons which Chesterton had taught me. Every morning I was up by candle light, either drawing or perusing works of art. Midnight generally found me still at work drawing from the antique, for my friend's kindness had supplied me with the use of all his casts and models. I used to visit him at his lodgings almost every day-we drew, dined, and occasionally visited the theatre in company. I began to be sensible of my own progress; my taste and power of execution were visibly improving, and I now awaited, no longer with presumptuous confidence, yet with good hopes of success, the arrival of the next competition for admission of a pupil of the Academy.

"The day arrived at last, and with a beating heart I presented myself and my sketches. The gentleman who had communicated my doom on the last occasion, was also the spokesman on this. 'These drawings,' said he, are very different from the last. They display traces of correct and systematic study, as well as more facility of execution. To-morrow you will be admitted as a pupil.'

6

"I knew only one of the young men who had the good fortune to be admitted along with me. His name was Gifford, and I had met him more than once in Chesterton's study. He was an able draftsman, but his vivacity of manner was somewhat too boisterous to render his society in general acceptable to me. On this occasion, however, my spirits were more than usually elevated, and on his proposing that we should adjourn to dine at a neighbouring coffee-house, and celebrate our success over a bottle of wine, I consented without much hesitation.

"The evening passed, as might be expected, gaily. Labours past, difficulties vanquished, hopes to come, supplied us with ample materials for conversation. Each probably saw himself (though we had the modesty to disguise our anticipations) figuring, in a few years, among those privileged members of the Academy, whose condition then appeared to us the most enviable in existence. We chatted, we sung, the stipulated bottle was succeeded by another. It was past eleven, in short, before we parted close to Temple-bar.

"You wonder, perhaps, what our dinner-party had to do with the subject of your question; you shall hear, for I am approaching the singular part of my story.

"The night was fine, and as I was so near to Chesterton's residence, the thought occurred to me that I would call on him, and communicate in person the news of my success, in which I knew he would be warmly interested. I knocked at his door, but was told he dined that day in the west end of the town, and had not yet returned. Being, however, by this time on terms of tolerable intimacy with his landlady, I told her I would step up to his room and wait his return. The candles were on the table unlighted; the fire in the grate burnt briskly, illuminating the apartment with a cheerful gleam. You need not light the candles,' said I; 'I like to sit by the fire, and Chesterton, I have no doubt, will be here immediately.'

"I sat down by the fire, watching the strange forms and combinations into which the shadows of the chairs, easels, and casts, were thrown upon the walls and roof. The arm of a Hercules, like the mast of some tall admiral, would be seen traversing the ceiling to clasp the leg of a Venus, which seemed swollen to the proportions of the Colossus of Rhodes; while a Montero cap, belonging to my friend, suspended on the top of the easel, looked on the wall like the gigantic helmet in the Castle of Otranto. As the fire grew lower, and the shadows less distinct, I began to pore into the grate, and to image forth castles, human forms, and chimeras dire from among the glowing embers. Sometimes a wild-looking head would brighten into light in the midst of a dark mass, and grin horribly for a moment over some castellated mass in the coals; then the jaws would quiver and drop off, the monstrous nose shrink away, a dark film would come over the eyes, and the whole changed into some rocky scene or gloomy cave, through

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whose cloven arches the eye wandered into regions of light beyond, across which little airy figures seemed to flit and hover. Anon, some slender jet of flame, spouting out like a miniature volcano from some abyss in the coals, would leap and play about for a little like an ignis fatuus, now flashing up, now disappearing, till at last, as if an earthquake or firequake had followed, the whole crust fell in at once, and cave and castle, temple and tower, with all their inhabitants, sunk and disappeared like the shadows of a dream."

(To be continued.)

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES.

No. III.-GEORGE FREDERICK HANDEL.

GEORGE Frederick Handel was born at Halle, a city in the circle of Upper Saxony, on February 24, 1684. His father was a physician and surgeon at that place, and was more than sixty years old when this his son was born; he had also one daughter by the same wife, and a son by a former marriage, who was a domestic to the Duke of SaxeWeisenfels, and resided at his court.

The destination of Mr. Handel by his father was to the law, but a superior propensity to music rendered every effort of his father to attach him to legal pursuits ineffectual. He is said, when forbid to touch musical instruments, to have found means to get a little clavichord conveyed into a room at the top of his father's house, to which he constantly resorted as soon as the family retired to rest, and, astonishing as it will seem, without any rules to direct his finger, or any other instructor than his own ear, he found means to produce from the instrument both melody and harmony.

he

At the age of seven years, by perseverance and resolution, he may be said to have compelled his father to take him on a visit to his brother at the court of Saxe-Weisenfels, where he was allowed to indulge his fondness for music without interruption. By the recommendation of the Duke, his inclination was no longer opposed; and on his return to Halle, he was placed under the care of Frederick William Zachau, organist of the great church in that city. At the age of nine years composed motets for the service of the church, and continued to make one almost every week for three years. By the time he had arrived at the age of thirteen years, he determined to visit Berlin, where he arrived in 1698. He continued there a short time, and then returned home; soon after which he lost his father. His attachment to his native place being much lessened by this event, he determined on another place of residence. He therefore went to Hamburgh, and performed at the opera there with great reputation. It was here, at the age of fourteen years, he composed his first opera, called Almeria, which was performed thirty nights without intermission.

At Hamburgh he remained three years, and during that time composed two other operas, namely, Florinda and Nerone. He then

resolved to visit Italy, and accordingly accepted an invitation he had received from the Grand Duke of Tuscany to go to Florence. After a year's stay there, he went to Venice, and from thence to Rome, at each of which places he composed some operas. From Rome he went to Naples, and then returned to Germany. He soon fixed on Hanover for his residence, and received particular marks of distinction from the Princess Sophia and her son the Elector, afterwards King George I.

In the year 1710, by permission of his patrons at Hanover, he came to England, and engaged with Mr. Aaron Hill, who had the management, at that time, of the Theatre in the Haymarket, where the opera of Rinaldo was performed, a work composed in a fortnight. represented with great success, and the person who printed the music is said to have got £1,500 by it.

It was

Though much solicited to stay in England, he this time resisted the temptation, and returned to Hanover, where he remained two years. He then obtained leave to revisit England, upon condition of his returning within a reasonable time. He arrived in London about the latter end of the year 1712, at which time the negotiations for the Treaty of Utrecht were in great forwardness. On the restoration of peace, he composed a Te Deum and Jubilate, which were performed at St. Paul's Cathedral, her Majesty herself attending the service.

The Queen died in 1714, and the Elector of Hanover came to the Crown. Handel had given offence to his new Sovereign both by his remaining in England, and by exerting his talents in celebrating a peace which was considered as a disgraceful one by the Court of Hanover. To restore him to the King's favour, Baron Kilmansegge contrived a party on the Thames, at which Handel produced his celebrated water music. Inquiry being made concerning the composer, he was soon afterwards introduced to the King, and restored to his former situation.

Being now determined to make England his residence, he accepted an invitation to reside first with Mr. Andrews, of Barn Elms, in Surrey, and afterwards with Lord Burlington. With this nobleman he continued three years: he then received a pressing invitation from the Duke of Chandos to undertake the direction of the chapel at his superb mansion Cannons. He went there in the year 1718, and resided with his Grace until the institution of the Musical Academy for the performance of operas at the Haymarket, under the patronage of the King and most of the principal nobility. Of this exhibition Mr. Handel was appointed director; and in that station he remained until 1726, when disputes arising between him and his employers, the academy was broken up, and a new subscription entered into with a

new manager.

On this event, Mr. Handel engaged with Heidegger, in opposition to his former friends, and they continued together for three years. At the end of that term, he undertook to perform operas on his own account, and this scheme he persisted in, until he had expended almost the whole property he had acquired; his health, too, suffered in an equal degree. To get rid of that dejection of mind which his repeated disappointments had brought on him, he was advised to use the waters

at Tunbridge, and a regimen calculated to assist their operation; his daorder was, however, too deeply rooted; his mental powers were even affected; and, to complete his distress, the palsy seized his right arm, and he was rendered incapable of using it in any manner.

Medicines being found ineffectual, he was prevailed upon to try the batha of Aix-la-Chapelle, which soon restored him to his former health. On his return to London, he again tried his fortune with some new operas: but not being satisfied with their reception, he struck out a new mode of entertainments. These were oratorios, which were for some time favourably received; but on a suspicion that the public were growing indifferent towards them, he determined to try the temper of the people of Ireland. Accordingly he went to Dublin in the year 1741, and gave a performance of the Messiah, for the benefit of the prisoners in that city. He returned to London in the year 1742, and performed Samson, which was received with such applause, as seemed to ensure him success in his future attempts of

that kind.

From this period may be dated that almost uninterrupted flow of success which attended him in his oratorios, during the rest of his life. In gratitude for the favour shown him by the public, and actuated by motives of benevolence, he performed the Messiah for the benefit of an institution which then stood in need of every assistance, the Foundling Hospital; and this he continued to do for several years. At the theatre his Messiah was frequently performed to such audiences as he could no otherwise accommodate than by erecting seats on the stage to such a number as scarcely left room for the performers. In this prosperous state did his affairs go on, till he was afflicted with the misfortune of blindness, which, great as it was, did not totally incapacitate him from study, or the power of entertaining the public.

In the beginning of the year 1751, he was alarmed by a disorder in his eyes, which, upon consulting with the surgeons, he was told was an incipient gutta serena. From the moment this opinion of his case was communicated to him, his spirits forsook him; and that fortitude which had supported him under afflictions of another kind, deserted him in this; scarcely leaving him patience to wait for that crisis in his disorder, in which he might hope for relief. He submitted, however, to some operations, but without any beneficial effect.

Towards the beginning of the year 1758, he began to find himself decline apace; and that general debility which was coming on him was rendered still more alarming by a total loss of appetite. When that symptom appeared, he considered his recovery as hopeless; and resigning himself to his fate, expired on the 14th day of April, 1759. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, the Dean, Dr. Pearce, Bishop of Rochester, assisted by the choir, performing the funeral solemnity; Over the place of his interment is a monument, designed and executed by Roubiliac, representing him at full length, in an erect posture, with a music paper in his hand, inscribed, "I know that my Redeemer liveth;" with the notes to which those words are set in his Messiah. He died worth about twenty thousand pounds, almost the whole whereof he bequeathed to his relations abroad.