words, were utter rubbish, yet it was the talk of the coffee-houses, India-houses, and drawing-rooms all over London.

He

Sir John Vanbrugh opened his theatre almost as soon as Clayton's opera began. He had proposed to Betterton's company to build a stately theatre in the Haymarket, and his offer was accepted. obtained a grant from Queen Anne, and a subscription from the nobility, and in 1704 was laid the first stone, on one side of which was inscribed KIT CAT, and on the other THE LITTLE WHIG, the latter being in honour of the beautiful Lady Sunderland, second daughter of the Duke of Marlborough, a celebrated toast. The house was opened in 1705, Betterton and his co-partners dissolving their own agreement, and placing themselves under the joint management of Vanbrugh and Congreve. On the opening of this grand and superb structure, April 9, 1705, it was discovered that almost every qualification and convenience of a good theatre had been sacrificed to display a vast triumphal piece of architecture. Immense columns, gilded cornices, and an immoderately high roof did not compensate for the defect which caused nine words out of ten to be carried off. They had Signor Greber's Loves of Ergasto,' which was acted every evening till the end of June. Theatre, pastoral, and managers failed, while Clayton was taking the town by storm. Sir John, tired or frightened, disposed of the entire establishment to Owen M'Swiney, who rented the house at five pounds a day. The com pany returned to Lincoln's Inn Fields, grievously disappointed with the result of their speculation.

Clayton relinquished his management in 1707, and went to York Buildings. The companies of the Queen's Theatre and Drury Lane then united and went from Drury Lane to the Haymarket, under the command of Owen M'Swiney. Owen was an Irishman, and had a fair share of the quickness of his nation, though he is called by Dibden a shuttlecock.' He had written a farce, and two opera libretti, and was the

kind of man to make a dash at anything, without suffering from an over-scrupulous conscience.

Italian singers, hearing that there was an opportunity of pocketing some bright English guineas, and being attracted by the report of our passion for opera,' had come to England. Among these was Nicolini, a Neapolitan. A magnificent actor and a superb-looking man, his voice was the admiration of all who heard him. Even Steele, so bitter against opera singers in general, dilates on the grace and propriety of the handsome Italian's action and gestures, which he declares did honour to the human figure. M'Swiney immediately engaged him at a salary of eight hundred guineas for the season—a sum considered enormous at the time. He retired in 1712, when he returned to Italy, and, building for himself a splendid villa, named it, as a testimony of his gratitude to the nation which had contributed the wealth amassed by him, THE ENGLISH FOLLY.

On the arrival of the Italians, operas were performed partly in English and partly in Italian, which drew down great laughter and derision from the wits of the day.

When M'Swiney withdrew from the management in 1710, there is every reason to suppose that he left the debts incurred during his theatrical reign unpaid; for the tradesmen who furnished dresses and other properties, advertised a general meeting to concert measures for petitioning the Lord Chamberlain, or commencing lawsuits against the manager, who peremptorily refused payment, although the articles were in constant use. As this advertisement was issued December 1711, and Aaron Hill was then manager, it is to be presumed that he declined paying the debts of his predecessor.

Aaron Hill, who became proprietor of the Haymarket (at a rental of six hundred pounds), and manager both of that theatre and Drury Lane, came into possession June 1710. He had travelled all over Europe in a strange, fitful way; had written several dramatic pieces;

he perfectly understood the secret of pleasing the public, and of attracting crowded audiences; and was endowed with a certain degree of cleverness. His tact particularly fitted him for undertaking the management of a large operatic establishment. His first great success was the opera of Thomyris,' put together and conducted by the newly-arrived Swiss Count,' John James Heidegger, who by that production alone was a gainer of five hundred pounds.' Heidegger, who afterwards became manager, created an extraordinary sensation in the fashionable world on his arrival. His speciality consisted in being the ugliest man of his time,' his portrait in that capacity being engraved at least ten or twelve times. Lord Chesterfield wagered that it would be an impossibility to find a second human being so horribly unfavoured by nature. Heidegger, who was as good-humoured as he was hideous, or as anxious to make money as he was unscrupulous regarding the means by which he acquired it, readily accepted the bet; and a search was instituted. After some time, a frightful old woman was discovered; and it was agreed that Heidegger had the day. Heidegger was about to triumph, when Chesterfield suddenly demanded that he should put on the old creature's bonnet.

Thus

equipped, Heidegger appeared so fearfully ugly (although he was robust, tall, and well made) that, amid an explosion of laughter, Chesterfield was at once declared victor. On another occasion, one Jolly, a well-known tailor, presenting himself with his bill before a noble duke, his Grace, to gain time, declared with an oath at his ugly visage, I will never pay you till you bring me an uglier fellow than yourself!' Jolly bowed; and retiring, sent a message to Heidegger, saying that his Grace wished to see him the next morning on particular business.' Heidegger attended, when Jolly was there to meet him. The result was, as soon as the Fleming's visit was over, 'Jolly received the cash.' Having lost all his credit abroad, Heidegger

had sought England as a harbour of refuge, and enlisted in the Guards for protection from his duns. Such was his boundless impudence, and such his insinuation, that he gained access in the most familiar manner to the society of the young 'sprigs of fashion,' by whom he was denominated the Swiss Count. Another very ridiculous story is told of him, which happened some years subsequently to this. The facetious Duke of Montague, projector of the bottle conjuring affair, had a mask made exactly like Heidegger's face, and a dress similar to that which he was to wear at a masquerade, in which he disguised a person of something the same figure as Heidegger. The night the trick was to be played, the conspirators waited until Heidegger, on the arrival of the royal party, had given the band orders to perform 'God save the King,' and had retired. The moment he had quitted the orchestra, the mock Heidegger ordered the band to strike up' Over the Water to Charley.' The assembly were aghast, and Heidegger ran back in horror, swearing that the band were drunk or mad, and ordered them furiously to recommence 'God save the King.' The instant he went away, the false Heidegger commanded Over the Water to Charley' again. The king and his courtiers were delighted, and the affair went on till the band were kicked out of the orchestra, and Heidegger became nearly insane. The mock Heidegger then stepped forward, and assured the king that he was the true Heidegger, and that the other was only the Devil in his likeness. The two Dromios were confronted, the false Heidegger having the advantage of being supported by the judges to whom the appeal was made. At last, the Duke of Montague, in pity to the poor man, who was now almost

stark mad with distraction and vexation,' made the impostor unmask, and the joke was laughed off; not, however, till Heidegger had obtained a promise that the mask should be melted down in his presence, that there might be no further chance of being mistaken for the

Devil. Pope introduced this individual into his Dunciad,' thereby adding but little to his notoriety. Dr. Arbuthnot inscribed to him a poem called the Masquerade,'' in which he seems more severe upon the Count's ugliness, which he could not help,' says Dr. Burney, than on his voluntary vices.'

Aaron Hill had just entered on his management when Handel arrived in England, on a special invitation from some noblemen who had heard his music in Hamburgh. The great maestro was then twentyseven, and had acquired a splendid reputation all over Europe. Hill immediately called on him, and asked him to write a piece for the Haymarket Theatre, to which Handel readily agreed. The manager then wrote a libretto, selecting the romantic history of Rinaldo and Armida, from Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered,' which he gave to Giacomo Rossi, a poet of considerable merit, to translate into Italian. Rossi wrote as fast as he could, yet was quite unable to keep pace with Handel, who composed so rapidly that the music was completed in a fortnight.

Hill spared no expense in producing Rinaldo,' which was brought out in the February of 1711. It was his object, he declared, to give to two senses an equal pleasure,' and among other innovations, he filled the garden of Armida with living birds, which created a great sensation, though they would persist in flying at the lights, and were denominated sparrows,' by Addison. He had also a real fountain. The opera was mounted elaborately, and was performed fifteen times in succession, a rare occurrence in those days. The cavatina in the first act, 'Cara sposa,' was to be found upon all the harpsichords in the kingdom, as a model of pathetic grace; the march was adopted by the Life Guards, who played it every day upon parade for forty years, and was sung in the 'Beggar's Opera' twenty years after it was composed. Walsh, the publisher, was said to have gained fifteen hundred pounds from the publication of Rinaldo,' which caused Handel to write com

plainingly:- My dear Sir,-As it is only right that we should be upon an equal footing, you shall compose the next opera, and I will sell it.'

Clayton, who was then at York Buildings, was in such a rage at the success of Rinaldo,' that he wrote angrily to the Spectator.' Steele also wrote against it; but the public would persist in going to the Opera to hear the new work. At that time the house was not open on Wednesdays and Saturdays, the hour of performance being six o'clock. In 1712, on the contrary, the performance took place on those very evenings.

Heidegger became Aaron Hill's partner in 1711; but immediately after this, Hill had a dispute with the Lord Chamberlain, and threw up his operatic sceptre, which he never resumed. He died in 1749, in his sixty-fourth year. The management was taken in 1712 by M'Swiney. In 1713, Teseo,' by Handel, was performed, with new and costly decorations. M'Swiney having vainly tried to obtain a subscription for six nights, gave out tickets for two nights only, throwing the boxes and pit into one. The house was full at each performance; but after the second night M'Swiney suddenly disappeared, without paying the singers' salaries, and leaving the dresses and the scenes unpaid for. M'Swiney ran away to Italy, where he stayed several years. On his return to England, he obtained a place in the Custom House, and was keeper of the King's Mews. He died in 1754, and left his fortune to his favourite, Mrs. Woffington.

On recovering from this confusion, the singers determined on going on with the opera, dividing the profits. They placed themselves under the immediate superintendence of Heidegger. At first the public went very regularly; but the house grew thinner every night. The next season, 1714, appeared the great star, Anastasia Robinson. During Lent, the opera was performed on Thursday, in consequence of the queen usually having a withdrawing-room and playing basset every Tuesday evening.' The

following season, the hour of performance was altered to five o'clock, and there was an advertisement issued by the manager: 'Whereas, by the frequent calling for the songs over again, the operas have been too tedious; therefore the singers are forbid to sing any song above once, and it is hoped nobody will call for 'em, or take it ill when not obeyed.' The public grew more indifferent every day, and at last even the presence of the Prince and Princess of Wales was not sufficient to fill the house. They tried dancing, they allowed servants to keep places in the boxes, but all their exertions and concessions were unavailing. In 1717-18 there were no operas performed; but Heidegger, who was very zealous in providing amusement for his patrons, organized masquerades, ridottos, and balls, when there were invariably 'some files of musquetiers at hand, for the preventing any disturbance which might happen by quarrels, &c.'

In

In 1720, operas were resumed. In the May of this year, the opera of Numitor' was announced. order to induce people to attend, it was advertised that those paying a guinea would be admitted on the stage.' A footman's gallery is mentioned in the papers of this date, with the addition that its frequenters were so insolent and noisy that threats of shutting it were cir.culated. A company of French comedians then occupied the theatre in the Haymarket, to the ire of the native actors. Aaron Hill wrote to the younger Rich, September 9, 1721, speaking thus: 'I suppose you know that the Duke of Montague and I have agreed that I am to have that house half the week, and the French vermin the other half.' This agreement was carried out; and Aaron Hill announced himself manager and director of a new company, formed by ladies and gentlemen who had never appeared on any stage, with the aid of scenery quite novel and upon an improved plan. He opened with his own play of Henry II.,' in December 1721.

The opera was then going to ruin, and a subscription was entered into by the nobility, to the extent of fifty

thousand pounds, to establish a new opera. Handel was appointed director, and the committee consisted of noblemen-dukes, earls, lords, generals. Handel was commissioned to form a company: he went to Dresden, where the opera was conducted on a scale of the utmost magnificence, and brought back a select troupe of singers, with Signora Durastanti and Senesino at their head. Senesino became soon the great star of the opera. He was an exquisite singer, and had a majestic figure and a princely deportment; but he was far from being the hero he looked. One evening, when he was singing in 'Julius Cæsar,' part of the machinery fell from the roof, just as he had chanted forth the words, in Italian, Cæsar does not know what fear is!' The poor hero was so frightened, that he trembled, lost his voice, and fell crying.' He never spared any energy in his acting, and sometimes threw an amount of force into a part which led him into the most ludicrous situations. One night he was performing as Alexander, when, leading the way to attack the enemy's walls, he drove his sword through the scene, and carried off a pasteboard brick, with which he marched onwards, in triumph. Another night, when stepping into Armida's enchanted bark, he took a stride too long, as he was more attentive to the accompaniment of the orchestra than to the breadth of the shore,' when he fell prostrate, and lay for some time in great pain, 'with the end of a wave running into his side.' Another night, he insulted Mistress Anastasia Robinson during the public rehearsal of an opera, and was caned behind the scenes by Lord Peterborough, when he had to go down on his knees and beg pardon. He took a fancy, during the performance of 'Theseus,' to drubbing the Minotaur soundly; and that the man who represented the monster might not object to being thrashed, the lordly singer always gave him a crown in compensation. Being anxious to have the worth of his money, Senesino invariably beat the Minotaur so heartily as to lose breath most seriously, which was often inconvenient, as a

song of triumph had to be vocalized over the vanquished foe. Lord Bathurst, at the age of eighty-seven, used to sing this song, and with much humour imitated the catches of breath with which Senesino interlarded it from his extraordinary exertions. Senesino, in short, was one of the most insolent, swaggering bullies that ever strutted their brief hour before the footlights.

With the exception of Senesino, who was perpetually tormenting him, Handel ruled his operatic troupe with ease. Anastasia Robinson, his prima donna, was an exceedingly good singer, and a very amiable woman. But in an evil hour for himself, he brought over the famous Cuzzoni. No sooner did that 'little syren' appear, than London fairly went out of its senses. She sang so exquisitely, she was so deliciously saucy, she was so regally superb in her ways, she was so incomprehensible, that lords and ladies, courtiers and citizens, young and old, could talk of nothing else. Poor Handel, the haughty, the massive, the irascible, was forced to submit to her countless whims and extravagancies. She would sing how, when, and where she chose. She would sing his music just as she pleased, and he might think himself only too much honoured if she condescended to sing it at all. Handel one day seized her round the waist, and threatened to fling her out of the window. 'I know you are a devil,' he cried, but I am Beelzebub, the prince of devils!' She was ill-tempered, she was ugly and ill made, with a short, squat figure, and a doughy, cross face, only redeemed by a fine complexion; she was silly and fantastical, but she was the reigning queen of the opera, and that was enough. Cuzzoni entered into a coalition with Senesino to torment Handel, for, from the commencement of opera, managers and singers have always been at war. Senesino, who had not the best of tempers, and was excessively arrogant and conceited, treated Handel abominably, and ungratefully, for the great composer had given him fifteen hundred pounds for the The maestro threw back

season.

the insolence of Senesino with galling indifference, which added fuel to the fire of hatred, and the audacity of Cuzzoni, with alternate threats and wheedling. The singers cared very little for the indignation which their conduct might create in the breast of Handel, for they felt sure of their popularity with the patrons of the opera, who disliked Handel's sturdy independence.

Hoping to subdue Cuzzoni, Handel engaged the lovely, sylph-like Faustina Bordoni, who had a brilliant reputation and a beautiful voice. The unfortunate manager, however, found himself in a more uncomfortable position than ever when he had secured the services of Faustina. Not only did the two singers commence a dreadful war, and fling the whole establishment into confusion, but all musical and fashionable London divided into two bitter factions. One night, the two prima donnas fought on the stage, with the fury of two demons. It would be difficult to say whether the most absurdities were committed by the cantatrici or by their partisans. When one prima donna opened her mouth to sing, the friends of the other would begin to hiss." Ladies of fashion headed the antagonistic parties. The Countess of Pembroke was general of the Cuzzoni forces, the Countess of Burlington and Lady Delawarr led the Faustina battalions. The grace and beauty of the Venetian singer gained for her the favour of the beaux and wits, who were anxious to secure for her undisputed dominion, and did not spare the partisans of her rival. One critic or wit wrote this indignant epigram:

⚫ Old poets sing that beasts did dance,
Whenever Orpheus played;

So to Faustina's charming voice

Wise Pembroke's asses brayed.'

In seven years the fifty thousand pounds subscribed for the Royal Academy of Music was squandered, together with the annual subscrip tion. Despite the admirable works produced by Handel, despite his really magnificent company, and the brilliant appointments of the theatre, the speculation was a complete, a lamentable failure.