THOMAS ARNE.

THOMAS ARNE.(THE ENGLISH AMPHION.)“Where Covent Garden’s famous temple stands,That boasts the work of Jones’ immortal hands,Columns with plain magnificence appear,And graceful porches lead along the square.”Gay.COVENT GARDEN IN 1660.Comewith me for a walk in Covent Garden, you, my country reader, who know not the London of to-day; and you, my friend of the great city, who know not the London of yesterday.As we pass through the crowded Strand we are so jostled by foot-passengers, and so deafened by the noise of vehicles, passing and repassing, that intercourse between us is impossible, but this quiet by-street will quickly lead us to our destination, and soon we shall find ourselves in front of the famous market.A low, rambling building fills up the centre space, which is surrounded on three sides by houses. Here, in the very small hours of the morning, the crowds are as dense and the business is as brisk as in the Strand which we have just left behind us, but during the daytime there is little life or bustle about the market. The fruits, vegetables and flowers, which began to arrive at midnight, are already scattered to the four quarters of the great city, and only a few loiterers stand about at the street corners, or employ themselves in desultory fashion in clearing up the refuse.But you and I are not dependent on market gardeners:“There is a flower which bloomethWhen autumn’s leaves are cast,Oh, pluck it ere it wither,’Tis the memory of the past!”This flower is to be found at all times and seasons in Covent Garden. It clings round every stone like the ivy on a ruined tower.In a street hard by the great musician, Thomas Augustine Arne, was born; in the square, on which the market now stands, he played football and cricket with the companions of his boyhood; here, as a young man, he walked and dreamed; here he married, here he died, and here, in the church yonder, he sleeps the last long sleep.DR. T. ARNE.It is always interesting to note the environment of a great man, and Arne’s environment was exceptionally rich in historic associations. He was born in the reign of Queen Anne—theAugustan age of English literature—and Covent Garden was the cradle of the wit and learning of his time.Let us now continue our walk, and, as we look round us, we will picture to ourselves this scene as it was some two hundred years ago.To our left lies the Church of St. Paul’s. It turns its back to us, but, as if to make up for any seeming unfriendliness, it carries its portico on its back. This church was designed by Inigo Jones in 1631, by command of the Duke of Bedford, who—the story goes—told the architect that he wanted a chapel for the parishioners of Covent Garden, but that he was not minded to expend much money upon it. “In short,” his Grace is reported to have said, “I would have it not much better than a barn.”“Very well,” answered Inigo; “you shall have the handsomest barn in England.”The church accordingly was built, and the “noble Tuscan portico,” which is said to be exactly like one described by the Italian architect Vitruvius, was erected in Covent Garden—nobody remembering that the entrance could not possibly be there, as the altar occupies the eastern extremity of every church.Passing through the “sham portico”—as it was contemptuously called by Horace Walpole—we come to the northern side of the square and find a long row of red-brick houses built over a colonnade so broad and lofty that we pause in wonder. The handsome groined roof is supported on massive stone pillars, now disfigured with paint and compo. The pavement is dirty and ill-kept, and the shops, thus sumptuously sheltered, are of the dingiest description. At the end of the colonnade the stone pillars have been replaced by iron ones, and behind these is the large foreign fruit market.This colonnade is called the Piazza, and it, too, was designed as long ago as 1633 by Inigo Jones. Probably the fact that the architect took the model of his church from Vitruvius will account for the Italian name given to the square, a name which struck Byron as so remarkable, that he wrote—“bating Covent Garden, I can hit onNo place that’s called Piazza in Great Britain.”To realise the aim of Inigo Jones in building this place, we must picture the scene as it was in his day.There was no market, and the great square was a free open space, neatly gravelled, and admirably kept in order. It was bounded on the south side by the garden of Bedford House, outside the wall of which a grove of trees, “most pleasant in the summer season,” gave grateful shade to a few market-women who sat there selling fruit and vegetables. Jones’s Piazza was built round the north and east sides of the square, and the colonnade thus constructed formed the fashionable promenade of the ladies and gentlemen who lived in the surrounding houses. Some years later a handsome column, surmounted by a sun-dial, was erected in the middle of the open space, and on the black marble steps at its base, we are told that “cleanly matrons” used to sit and dispense barley broth and porridge to their customers.At the end of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth centuries the houses in the Piazza were occupied by persons of high position and considerable wealth. Among these were several celebrated painters, such as Sir Peter Lely and Sir Godfrey Kneller. Lely’s real name was Van der Faes, but his grandfather being a perfumer, whose sign was the lily, Sir Peter’s father, on becoming an officer, discarded the family name, adopting instead that of Lely, which his son was destined to make famous. Sir Peter became a great favourite at the English Court; he died in 1680, and was buried by torchlight in the Church of St. Paul’s, which faced his dwelling.The next year Sir Godfrey Kneller came into the Piazza, and here he lived for twenty-four years. He had a wonderful garden behind his house, and cultivated the rarest and most beautiful flowers.In 1717, the beautiful and witty Lady Mary Wortley Montague was living in the Piazza. She had been christened at St. Paul’s in 1689.Close by the church, in the corner house, lived the Earl of Orford, better known as the great Admiral Russell, who defeated the French off La Hogue. His ship was called theBritannia, and from its beams he made the staircase of his house, which had—and, I believe, still has—wonderful carvings of ropes and anchors, the whole being surmounted by the coronet and initials of the house of Orford. Here he was living in 1710, and on his left, three houses further up in the Piazza, was the painter Closterman, whose beautiful portrait of Purcell was reproduced for readers ofThe Girl’s Own Paperin the last December number.To the right of Admiral Russell’s house was King Street; in fact this house, which has since been re-built, is now numbered 43, King Street.Our illustrations shows Covent Garden as it was in 1660; that is, fifty years previous to the time now under discussion. Lord Orford’s house had then not been built, and the so-called Little Piazza, a column of which appears in the foreground to the left, was not completed. But the church is there and a portion of the Great Piazza, in the corner to the right. The gabled houses just beyond the Piazza are in King Street, then, as now, a business street. No. 38, which we know as Stevens’ Auction Rooms—a great place for buying bulbs at certain times of year—was long occupied by Paterson, the celebrated book auctioneer, whose son, Samuel, was the godson of Dr. Johnson. In Paterson’s rooms the literary men of the day used to meet; there Dibdin wrote some of his finest songs, and there the walls have often echoed to the applause which followed his singing of “Poor Jack.”Four doors further down, at No. 34,[1]there was living in 1710 an upholsterer—Thomas Arne, by name—whose sign was the Two Crowns and Cushions. In 1690, this Arne had been overseer of the poor of the parish of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, and he was then living in a much more modest dwelling in Bedford Street.Apparently he was a man of artistic tastes, for his rate-book, which may still be seen, bears his name upon its cover in very beautiful ornamental lettering.That he was also an excellent man of business is sufficiently proved by the fact that he occupied his house in King Street until 1733, paying a yearly rent of £75—a high price in those days. He was twice married, his second marriage taking place in 1707 at Mercer’s Chapel, and the lady’s name being Anne Wheeler. In 1710, two important events took place. On March 12th, there was born to Mr. and Mrs. Arne a little son, whom they called Thomas Augustine, and who has since been called “the English Amphion.”A month later there came to lodge with them four Indian kings, or, as we should say, chiefs of the North American Indians. These chiefs had been brought over to England by an English officer, who very wisely foresaw that the best way to secure their allegiance, and obtain the assistance of their tribes in driving the French out of the English settlements in Canada was to impress them with the grandeur and power of England.Accordingly, the visitors were treated with every courtesy; they were received by Queen Anne herself, and loaded with presents. Two royal carriages were placed at their disposal, they were lodged, as we have seen, in “a handsome apartment,” and they were taken about to see the sights of London.The ruse was successful. When the “kings” left our shores they were quite willing to back the English against all the world. Readers of Fenimore Cooper’s stirring novel,The Last of the Mohicans, will gain some further knowledge of Queen Anne’s strange visitors, for the Mohicans are there said to be subordinate to the Iroquois, or Five Nations, to which the chiefs belonged.Addison was much interested in the strangers, and says in theSpectatorof April 27, 1711, that he often mixed with the rabble and followed them for a whole day together. Some very amusing accounts of the “kings” are given both in theTatlerandSpectator. One of them I must repeat.During their sojourn in England, according to theTatler, of May 13, 1710, one of the kings fell ill. The landlord, Mr. Thomas Arne, was unremitting in his attentions to the sufferer, who, having never slept in a bed before, felt great admiration for the skilful upholsterer who had constructed “that engine of repose, so useful and so necessary in his distress.” When, therefore, the patient was recovered, he and his brother kings consulted among themselves how they should evince their appreciation of the kindness shown them, and it was decided that to honour their host befittingly, they must confer upon him the name of the strongest fort in their country. The upholsterer accordingly was summoned, and, on entering the room, he was received by the four kings standing, all of them addressing him as “Cadaroque!”After a month’s sojourn in King Street, the Indians returned to their own land, and Thomas Arne was able once more to devote himself exclusively to his business and his family.Four years afterwards a baby girl was born and received the name of Susan, and, later there were some more children who, however, have no particular interest for us.Thomas Arne was determined to give his son every advantage, so when the boy, Thomas Augustine, was old enough he sent him to Eton. But Master Tommy had no mind for learning, and gave his professors considerable trouble. When he should have been studying his lessons, he was found playing the flute, and the upshot of it all was, that when the time came for him to leave college, neither he nor anyone else was very sorry.He was now articled to a solicitor, for his father’s ambition was to see him a lawyer, but he managed to smuggle a spinet into his bedroom, and, having muffled the strings with a handkerchief, he practised when the family was asleep. He also contrived to get violin lessons from a man called Festing, and in the evenings he used to borrow a livery and, thus disguised, visit the opera, where the servants of the aristocracy were allowed free access to the gallery.His progress in violin-playing was so rapid that he was soon able to lead a small orchestra, and we can imagine what the surprise of the upholsterer must have been when one evening, having been invited to a musical party, he found that his own son had been engaged to provide the entertainment.Thomas had an uncomfortable walk home that night with his angry parent, but the good man was too sensible not to recognise that it was better that his son should be a fairmusician than a bad lawyer. Finally, harmony was restored to the family circle, and the young performer was allowed to follow the bent of his genius.Before long he found that his sister Susan had a beautiful voice, which he trained so carefully, that in 1732, when she was eighteen, she was able to appear in an opera by Lampe, calledAmelia.Encouraged by her success, he now set to work to compose music for Addison’s play,Rosamund, in which she sang when it was produced at Lincoln’s Inn Theatre in 1733. A year later, Susan Arne married Theophilus Cibber, the son of the poet laureate, Colley Cibber. She was not happy in her married life, but it would have been impossible for any girl to be happy with such a husband. The music historian, Dr. Burney, has said of Susan that she captivated every ear by the sweetness and expression of her voice in singing; but her principal charm seems to have consisted in her exquisite simplicity. With Händel she was a great favourite. He wrote for her the contralto songs in theMessiah, and the part of Micah inSamson, and she was the first Galatea in hisAcis and Galatea. She died in 1766, and was buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.In 1736 young Arne—now twenty-six years of age—married Cecilia Young, a daughter of the organist of All Hallows, Barking. She was a pupil of Geminiani, and was called “the nightingale of the stage,” her voice being considered matchless “for melody, fulness and flexibility.”In 1738, Milton’sComuswas produced at Drury Lane, and Arne was engaged to write the music for it. The description of this work given by Busby in hisHistory of Musicis so charming that I am tempted to quote it.“In this mask Arne introduced a style unique and perfectly his own. Without pretending to the high energy of Purcell or the ponderous dignity of Händel, it was vigorous, gay, elegant and natural, and possessed such strong and distinctive features as, by its production, to form an era in English music. By the beauty of this piece and by that of his numerous songs, Arne influenced the national taste, and begat a partiality for that flowing, sweet, and lucid style of melody which captivates the ear by the simplicity of itsmotivo, and satisfies the understanding by the truth and emphasis of its expression. It long guided or governed the genius of inferior composers for the theatres and public gardens, and constituted and settled amannerwhich more justly than any other may be denominatedEnglish. Unfortunately, the ingenious inventor of this manner, the mellifluous, the natural, the unaffected Arne, was not himself sufficiently sensible of its value to continue true to the native cast of his own genius. Tempted to follow the Italian composers, he deserted a path in which he could not be exceeded or followed.”Busby’s censure of Arne’s deviation from that path in which the highest honours awaited him, has reference to the operaArtaserse, which was written in the florid Italian style popular at the time. But it is hard to blame the composer for a backsliding which was the inevitable consequence of the bad taste of the public.Artasersewas produced at Covent Garden in 1762, and, as we are told, was “immediately successful.”Whose fault was it that the good English works of the previous thirty years were not so “immediately successful?”During those thirty years Arne had produced the music to theTempest, which contains that daintiest of dainty songs, “Where the bee sucks.” I hope that there is not an English girl with a voice in her throat who has not sung those witching notes of Ariel’s.Scarcely less beautiful are the songs inAs You Like It—“Under the greenwood tree,” “Blow, blow, thou winter wind,” and “When daises pied.”But all these and many more would not have gained for our composer the title “the English Amphion,” which is so justly his. The legend tells that to the sound of Amphion’s lyre the stones placed themselves in order, forming an impregnable wall round the city of Thebes; and the story is explained by the assumption that, fired by their leader’s eloquence, the men of Thebes became invincible.Was ever patriotic song written so great as “Rule, Britannia,” or could Amphion himself have led an army to battle with more inspiring music?Wagner once said that the whole character of the English nation is contained in the first eight notes of “Rule, Britannia.” It is interesting to compare these eight notes with the first eight notes of the parallel French and German songs.[Transcriber’s note: click the titles to listen to the musical snippets. Links may not work in some versions of this etext or without an internet connection.][audio/mpeg][audio/mpeg][audio/mpeg]The French song repeats every step—that is dull!The German song looks back twice in its short course—that is weak!The English song plants its feet firmly—then rushes to the point, without swerving an eyelash. It says in music—“Up, boys, and at them!”Bravo! Thomas Arne.This song, “Rule, Britannia,” completes a masque, calledAlfred, written by Thomson and Mallett, and composed by Arne. It was first performed in August, 1740, on a stage erected in the beautiful grounds at Clieveden, in Buckinghamshire—then the residence of Frederick Prince of Wales, now the home of an American millionaire—where afêtehad been arranged to commemorate the Accession of George I., and to celebrate the birth of Princess Augusta.Five years laterAlfredwas given in London, at Drury Lane, for the benefit of Mrs. Arne. It seems specially appropriate that Arne should have been the composer of “Rule, Britannia.” The earliest associations of his childhood must have been connected with the home of the great Admiral, the Commander of theBritannia, who lived almost next door to his father’s shop, and doubtless the boy often peeped in through the open doorway at the grand staircase, of which he will have heard that its beams once formed part of the wooden walls of England.It is possible that he may have lived in this house himself at a much later date, for in 1774 it passed into the hands of David Low, and was opened by him as a family hotel, the first establishment of that kind in England.But if Arne ever lived there it was only for a short time, for he died on March 5th, 1778, at his house in Bow Street, which he had only occupied for four months and a half. On the early editions of hisNew Favourite Songs, as also on theWinter Amusements, there is the announcement that they are “to be had of the author at his house in the Piazza, next the Church, Covent Garden”; but there is no mention of his name as a householder in the rate-books of St. Paul’s, from 1760 till 1777-8, when, as I have said, he rented a house in Bow Street for a short time before his death.One of the innovations for which we have reason to be grateful to Thomas Arne was the introduction of female voices into oratorio choruses, an experiment which was tried by him for the first time at a performance of hisJudithat Covent Garden on February 26th, 1773.This oratorio had been performed at Stratford-on-Avon in the quaint old church in which Shakespeare was buried, on the occasion of the Jubilee festivities organised by Garrick in 1769. On the second day of that festival an Ode, written by Garrick and set to music by Arne, was given, the actor-poet designating the composer as “the first musical genius of this country.”In connection with Garrick’s relations to Arne, an amusing story is told. Arne was very anxious that Garrick should hear his favourite pupil, Miss Brent, and with some difficulty he succeeded one day in arranging a meeting between them. Miss Brent sang, and Garrick, after complimenting her, turned to Arne with the supercilious remark:“After all, Tommy, your music is but pickle to my roast beef!”—implying that the drama was the superior art.Dr. Arne was not the mildest of men, and he cried:“I’ll pickle your roast beef, Davey, before I am done!”The threat was no idle one. Refused an engagement at Drury Lane, which was under Garrick’s management, Arne set up his famous pupil at Covent Garden, where she had such success inThe Beggar’s Opera, that all the town flocked to hear her, and Garrick was nearly ruined.The degree of Mus. Doc. was conferred on Arne by Oxford University in July, 1759. In addition to being a great composer, he was a great teacher, laying particular stress on the importance of clear enunciation of the words. Most of his earlier works were written for his wife, who accompanied him on a visit to Ireland in 1742, and who was a very successful singer. After she retired from public life Arne’s pupils interpreted his compositions. He had one son, Michael, who went on the stage at an early date, but his chief successes were gained as a player of the harpsichord.Like so many other great men, Dr. Arne was buried in St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, and there was originally a monument to him in that church, but owing to the carelessness of some plumbers engaged in repairs, the building was almost totally destroyed by fire in the year 1795; and though it was rebuilt on the same plan and in the same proportions, the memorials of its mighty dead were never replaced, and there is nothing now to show that here rest, with Dr. Thomas Arne, the poets, Samuel Butler and Peter Pindar; the dramatists, Mrs. Centlivre and William Wycherley; the painter, Sir Peter Lely; the sculptor, Grinling Gibbons; and many more whose names are inscribed upon the scroll of Fame.Eleonore D’Esterre-Keeling.

(THE ENGLISH AMPHION.)

“Where Covent Garden’s famous temple stands,That boasts the work of Jones’ immortal hands,Columns with plain magnificence appear,And graceful porches lead along the square.”Gay.

“Where Covent Garden’s famous temple stands,That boasts the work of Jones’ immortal hands,Columns with plain magnificence appear,And graceful porches lead along the square.”

“Where Covent Garden’s famous temple stands,

That boasts the work of Jones’ immortal hands,

Columns with plain magnificence appear,

And graceful porches lead along the square.”

Gay.

COVENT GARDEN IN 1660.

Comewith me for a walk in Covent Garden, you, my country reader, who know not the London of to-day; and you, my friend of the great city, who know not the London of yesterday.

As we pass through the crowded Strand we are so jostled by foot-passengers, and so deafened by the noise of vehicles, passing and repassing, that intercourse between us is impossible, but this quiet by-street will quickly lead us to our destination, and soon we shall find ourselves in front of the famous market.

A low, rambling building fills up the centre space, which is surrounded on three sides by houses. Here, in the very small hours of the morning, the crowds are as dense and the business is as brisk as in the Strand which we have just left behind us, but during the daytime there is little life or bustle about the market. The fruits, vegetables and flowers, which began to arrive at midnight, are already scattered to the four quarters of the great city, and only a few loiterers stand about at the street corners, or employ themselves in desultory fashion in clearing up the refuse.

But you and I are not dependent on market gardeners:

“There is a flower which bloomethWhen autumn’s leaves are cast,Oh, pluck it ere it wither,’Tis the memory of the past!”

“There is a flower which bloometh

When autumn’s leaves are cast,

Oh, pluck it ere it wither,

’Tis the memory of the past!”

This flower is to be found at all times and seasons in Covent Garden. It clings round every stone like the ivy on a ruined tower.

In a street hard by the great musician, Thomas Augustine Arne, was born; in the square, on which the market now stands, he played football and cricket with the companions of his boyhood; here, as a young man, he walked and dreamed; here he married, here he died, and here, in the church yonder, he sleeps the last long sleep.

DR. T. ARNE.

It is always interesting to note the environment of a great man, and Arne’s environment was exceptionally rich in historic associations. He was born in the reign of Queen Anne—theAugustan age of English literature—and Covent Garden was the cradle of the wit and learning of his time.

Let us now continue our walk, and, as we look round us, we will picture to ourselves this scene as it was some two hundred years ago.

To our left lies the Church of St. Paul’s. It turns its back to us, but, as if to make up for any seeming unfriendliness, it carries its portico on its back. This church was designed by Inigo Jones in 1631, by command of the Duke of Bedford, who—the story goes—told the architect that he wanted a chapel for the parishioners of Covent Garden, but that he was not minded to expend much money upon it. “In short,” his Grace is reported to have said, “I would have it not much better than a barn.”

“Very well,” answered Inigo; “you shall have the handsomest barn in England.”

The church accordingly was built, and the “noble Tuscan portico,” which is said to be exactly like one described by the Italian architect Vitruvius, was erected in Covent Garden—nobody remembering that the entrance could not possibly be there, as the altar occupies the eastern extremity of every church.

Passing through the “sham portico”—as it was contemptuously called by Horace Walpole—we come to the northern side of the square and find a long row of red-brick houses built over a colonnade so broad and lofty that we pause in wonder. The handsome groined roof is supported on massive stone pillars, now disfigured with paint and compo. The pavement is dirty and ill-kept, and the shops, thus sumptuously sheltered, are of the dingiest description. At the end of the colonnade the stone pillars have been replaced by iron ones, and behind these is the large foreign fruit market.

This colonnade is called the Piazza, and it, too, was designed as long ago as 1633 by Inigo Jones. Probably the fact that the architect took the model of his church from Vitruvius will account for the Italian name given to the square, a name which struck Byron as so remarkable, that he wrote—

“bating Covent Garden, I can hit onNo place that’s called Piazza in Great Britain.”

“bating Covent Garden, I can hit on

No place that’s called Piazza in Great Britain.”

To realise the aim of Inigo Jones in building this place, we must picture the scene as it was in his day.

There was no market, and the great square was a free open space, neatly gravelled, and admirably kept in order. It was bounded on the south side by the garden of Bedford House, outside the wall of which a grove of trees, “most pleasant in the summer season,” gave grateful shade to a few market-women who sat there selling fruit and vegetables. Jones’s Piazza was built round the north and east sides of the square, and the colonnade thus constructed formed the fashionable promenade of the ladies and gentlemen who lived in the surrounding houses. Some years later a handsome column, surmounted by a sun-dial, was erected in the middle of the open space, and on the black marble steps at its base, we are told that “cleanly matrons” used to sit and dispense barley broth and porridge to their customers.

At the end of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth centuries the houses in the Piazza were occupied by persons of high position and considerable wealth. Among these were several celebrated painters, such as Sir Peter Lely and Sir Godfrey Kneller. Lely’s real name was Van der Faes, but his grandfather being a perfumer, whose sign was the lily, Sir Peter’s father, on becoming an officer, discarded the family name, adopting instead that of Lely, which his son was destined to make famous. Sir Peter became a great favourite at the English Court; he died in 1680, and was buried by torchlight in the Church of St. Paul’s, which faced his dwelling.

The next year Sir Godfrey Kneller came into the Piazza, and here he lived for twenty-four years. He had a wonderful garden behind his house, and cultivated the rarest and most beautiful flowers.

In 1717, the beautiful and witty Lady Mary Wortley Montague was living in the Piazza. She had been christened at St. Paul’s in 1689.

Close by the church, in the corner house, lived the Earl of Orford, better known as the great Admiral Russell, who defeated the French off La Hogue. His ship was called theBritannia, and from its beams he made the staircase of his house, which had—and, I believe, still has—wonderful carvings of ropes and anchors, the whole being surmounted by the coronet and initials of the house of Orford. Here he was living in 1710, and on his left, three houses further up in the Piazza, was the painter Closterman, whose beautiful portrait of Purcell was reproduced for readers ofThe Girl’s Own Paperin the last December number.

To the right of Admiral Russell’s house was King Street; in fact this house, which has since been re-built, is now numbered 43, King Street.

Our illustrations shows Covent Garden as it was in 1660; that is, fifty years previous to the time now under discussion. Lord Orford’s house had then not been built, and the so-called Little Piazza, a column of which appears in the foreground to the left, was not completed. But the church is there and a portion of the Great Piazza, in the corner to the right. The gabled houses just beyond the Piazza are in King Street, then, as now, a business street. No. 38, which we know as Stevens’ Auction Rooms—a great place for buying bulbs at certain times of year—was long occupied by Paterson, the celebrated book auctioneer, whose son, Samuel, was the godson of Dr. Johnson. In Paterson’s rooms the literary men of the day used to meet; there Dibdin wrote some of his finest songs, and there the walls have often echoed to the applause which followed his singing of “Poor Jack.”

Four doors further down, at No. 34,[1]there was living in 1710 an upholsterer—Thomas Arne, by name—whose sign was the Two Crowns and Cushions. In 1690, this Arne had been overseer of the poor of the parish of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, and he was then living in a much more modest dwelling in Bedford Street.

Apparently he was a man of artistic tastes, for his rate-book, which may still be seen, bears his name upon its cover in very beautiful ornamental lettering.

That he was also an excellent man of business is sufficiently proved by the fact that he occupied his house in King Street until 1733, paying a yearly rent of £75—a high price in those days. He was twice married, his second marriage taking place in 1707 at Mercer’s Chapel, and the lady’s name being Anne Wheeler. In 1710, two important events took place. On March 12th, there was born to Mr. and Mrs. Arne a little son, whom they called Thomas Augustine, and who has since been called “the English Amphion.”

A month later there came to lodge with them four Indian kings, or, as we should say, chiefs of the North American Indians. These chiefs had been brought over to England by an English officer, who very wisely foresaw that the best way to secure their allegiance, and obtain the assistance of their tribes in driving the French out of the English settlements in Canada was to impress them with the grandeur and power of England.

Accordingly, the visitors were treated with every courtesy; they were received by Queen Anne herself, and loaded with presents. Two royal carriages were placed at their disposal, they were lodged, as we have seen, in “a handsome apartment,” and they were taken about to see the sights of London.

The ruse was successful. When the “kings” left our shores they were quite willing to back the English against all the world. Readers of Fenimore Cooper’s stirring novel,The Last of the Mohicans, will gain some further knowledge of Queen Anne’s strange visitors, for the Mohicans are there said to be subordinate to the Iroquois, or Five Nations, to which the chiefs belonged.

Addison was much interested in the strangers, and says in theSpectatorof April 27, 1711, that he often mixed with the rabble and followed them for a whole day together. Some very amusing accounts of the “kings” are given both in theTatlerandSpectator. One of them I must repeat.

During their sojourn in England, according to theTatler, of May 13, 1710, one of the kings fell ill. The landlord, Mr. Thomas Arne, was unremitting in his attentions to the sufferer, who, having never slept in a bed before, felt great admiration for the skilful upholsterer who had constructed “that engine of repose, so useful and so necessary in his distress.” When, therefore, the patient was recovered, he and his brother kings consulted among themselves how they should evince their appreciation of the kindness shown them, and it was decided that to honour their host befittingly, they must confer upon him the name of the strongest fort in their country. The upholsterer accordingly was summoned, and, on entering the room, he was received by the four kings standing, all of them addressing him as “Cadaroque!”

After a month’s sojourn in King Street, the Indians returned to their own land, and Thomas Arne was able once more to devote himself exclusively to his business and his family.

Four years afterwards a baby girl was born and received the name of Susan, and, later there were some more children who, however, have no particular interest for us.

Thomas Arne was determined to give his son every advantage, so when the boy, Thomas Augustine, was old enough he sent him to Eton. But Master Tommy had no mind for learning, and gave his professors considerable trouble. When he should have been studying his lessons, he was found playing the flute, and the upshot of it all was, that when the time came for him to leave college, neither he nor anyone else was very sorry.

He was now articled to a solicitor, for his father’s ambition was to see him a lawyer, but he managed to smuggle a spinet into his bedroom, and, having muffled the strings with a handkerchief, he practised when the family was asleep. He also contrived to get violin lessons from a man called Festing, and in the evenings he used to borrow a livery and, thus disguised, visit the opera, where the servants of the aristocracy were allowed free access to the gallery.

His progress in violin-playing was so rapid that he was soon able to lead a small orchestra, and we can imagine what the surprise of the upholsterer must have been when one evening, having been invited to a musical party, he found that his own son had been engaged to provide the entertainment.

Thomas had an uncomfortable walk home that night with his angry parent, but the good man was too sensible not to recognise that it was better that his son should be a fairmusician than a bad lawyer. Finally, harmony was restored to the family circle, and the young performer was allowed to follow the bent of his genius.

Before long he found that his sister Susan had a beautiful voice, which he trained so carefully, that in 1732, when she was eighteen, she was able to appear in an opera by Lampe, calledAmelia.

Encouraged by her success, he now set to work to compose music for Addison’s play,Rosamund, in which she sang when it was produced at Lincoln’s Inn Theatre in 1733. A year later, Susan Arne married Theophilus Cibber, the son of the poet laureate, Colley Cibber. She was not happy in her married life, but it would have been impossible for any girl to be happy with such a husband. The music historian, Dr. Burney, has said of Susan that she captivated every ear by the sweetness and expression of her voice in singing; but her principal charm seems to have consisted in her exquisite simplicity. With Händel she was a great favourite. He wrote for her the contralto songs in theMessiah, and the part of Micah inSamson, and she was the first Galatea in hisAcis and Galatea. She died in 1766, and was buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.

In 1736 young Arne—now twenty-six years of age—married Cecilia Young, a daughter of the organist of All Hallows, Barking. She was a pupil of Geminiani, and was called “the nightingale of the stage,” her voice being considered matchless “for melody, fulness and flexibility.”

In 1738, Milton’sComuswas produced at Drury Lane, and Arne was engaged to write the music for it. The description of this work given by Busby in hisHistory of Musicis so charming that I am tempted to quote it.

“In this mask Arne introduced a style unique and perfectly his own. Without pretending to the high energy of Purcell or the ponderous dignity of Händel, it was vigorous, gay, elegant and natural, and possessed such strong and distinctive features as, by its production, to form an era in English music. By the beauty of this piece and by that of his numerous songs, Arne influenced the national taste, and begat a partiality for that flowing, sweet, and lucid style of melody which captivates the ear by the simplicity of itsmotivo, and satisfies the understanding by the truth and emphasis of its expression. It long guided or governed the genius of inferior composers for the theatres and public gardens, and constituted and settled amannerwhich more justly than any other may be denominatedEnglish. Unfortunately, the ingenious inventor of this manner, the mellifluous, the natural, the unaffected Arne, was not himself sufficiently sensible of its value to continue true to the native cast of his own genius. Tempted to follow the Italian composers, he deserted a path in which he could not be exceeded or followed.”

Busby’s censure of Arne’s deviation from that path in which the highest honours awaited him, has reference to the operaArtaserse, which was written in the florid Italian style popular at the time. But it is hard to blame the composer for a backsliding which was the inevitable consequence of the bad taste of the public.Artasersewas produced at Covent Garden in 1762, and, as we are told, was “immediately successful.”

Whose fault was it that the good English works of the previous thirty years were not so “immediately successful?”

During those thirty years Arne had produced the music to theTempest, which contains that daintiest of dainty songs, “Where the bee sucks.” I hope that there is not an English girl with a voice in her throat who has not sung those witching notes of Ariel’s.

Scarcely less beautiful are the songs inAs You Like It—“Under the greenwood tree,” “Blow, blow, thou winter wind,” and “When daises pied.”

But all these and many more would not have gained for our composer the title “the English Amphion,” which is so justly his. The legend tells that to the sound of Amphion’s lyre the stones placed themselves in order, forming an impregnable wall round the city of Thebes; and the story is explained by the assumption that, fired by their leader’s eloquence, the men of Thebes became invincible.

Was ever patriotic song written so great as “Rule, Britannia,” or could Amphion himself have led an army to battle with more inspiring music?

Wagner once said that the whole character of the English nation is contained in the first eight notes of “Rule, Britannia.” It is interesting to compare these eight notes with the first eight notes of the parallel French and German songs.

[Transcriber’s note: click the titles to listen to the musical snippets. Links may not work in some versions of this etext or without an internet connection.]

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The French song repeats every step—that is dull!

The German song looks back twice in its short course—that is weak!

The English song plants its feet firmly—then rushes to the point, without swerving an eyelash. It says in music—

“Up, boys, and at them!”

Bravo! Thomas Arne.

This song, “Rule, Britannia,” completes a masque, calledAlfred, written by Thomson and Mallett, and composed by Arne. It was first performed in August, 1740, on a stage erected in the beautiful grounds at Clieveden, in Buckinghamshire—then the residence of Frederick Prince of Wales, now the home of an American millionaire—where afêtehad been arranged to commemorate the Accession of George I., and to celebrate the birth of Princess Augusta.

Five years laterAlfredwas given in London, at Drury Lane, for the benefit of Mrs. Arne. It seems specially appropriate that Arne should have been the composer of “Rule, Britannia.” The earliest associations of his childhood must have been connected with the home of the great Admiral, the Commander of theBritannia, who lived almost next door to his father’s shop, and doubtless the boy often peeped in through the open doorway at the grand staircase, of which he will have heard that its beams once formed part of the wooden walls of England.

It is possible that he may have lived in this house himself at a much later date, for in 1774 it passed into the hands of David Low, and was opened by him as a family hotel, the first establishment of that kind in England.

But if Arne ever lived there it was only for a short time, for he died on March 5th, 1778, at his house in Bow Street, which he had only occupied for four months and a half. On the early editions of hisNew Favourite Songs, as also on theWinter Amusements, there is the announcement that they are “to be had of the author at his house in the Piazza, next the Church, Covent Garden”; but there is no mention of his name as a householder in the rate-books of St. Paul’s, from 1760 till 1777-8, when, as I have said, he rented a house in Bow Street for a short time before his death.

One of the innovations for which we have reason to be grateful to Thomas Arne was the introduction of female voices into oratorio choruses, an experiment which was tried by him for the first time at a performance of hisJudithat Covent Garden on February 26th, 1773.

This oratorio had been performed at Stratford-on-Avon in the quaint old church in which Shakespeare was buried, on the occasion of the Jubilee festivities organised by Garrick in 1769. On the second day of that festival an Ode, written by Garrick and set to music by Arne, was given, the actor-poet designating the composer as “the first musical genius of this country.”

In connection with Garrick’s relations to Arne, an amusing story is told. Arne was very anxious that Garrick should hear his favourite pupil, Miss Brent, and with some difficulty he succeeded one day in arranging a meeting between them. Miss Brent sang, and Garrick, after complimenting her, turned to Arne with the supercilious remark:

“After all, Tommy, your music is but pickle to my roast beef!”—implying that the drama was the superior art.

Dr. Arne was not the mildest of men, and he cried:

“I’ll pickle your roast beef, Davey, before I am done!”

The threat was no idle one. Refused an engagement at Drury Lane, which was under Garrick’s management, Arne set up his famous pupil at Covent Garden, where she had such success inThe Beggar’s Opera, that all the town flocked to hear her, and Garrick was nearly ruined.

The degree of Mus. Doc. was conferred on Arne by Oxford University in July, 1759. In addition to being a great composer, he was a great teacher, laying particular stress on the importance of clear enunciation of the words. Most of his earlier works were written for his wife, who accompanied him on a visit to Ireland in 1742, and who was a very successful singer. After she retired from public life Arne’s pupils interpreted his compositions. He had one son, Michael, who went on the stage at an early date, but his chief successes were gained as a player of the harpsichord.

Like so many other great men, Dr. Arne was buried in St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, and there was originally a monument to him in that church, but owing to the carelessness of some plumbers engaged in repairs, the building was almost totally destroyed by fire in the year 1795; and though it was rebuilt on the same plan and in the same proportions, the memorials of its mighty dead were never replaced, and there is nothing now to show that here rest, with Dr. Thomas Arne, the poets, Samuel Butler and Peter Pindar; the dramatists, Mrs. Centlivre and William Wycherley; the painter, Sir Peter Lely; the sculptor, Grinling Gibbons; and many more whose names are inscribed upon the scroll of Fame.

Eleonore D’Esterre-Keeling.

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