Grace Notes

Comfort Ye

DONNA REILLY

Emmanuel Kant called the 18th century “The Age of Enlightenment.” Assuredly, a great many literary and philosophical contributions were made during the century, as well as promising new discoveries in science and new theories on how governments should be run—including the beginnings of an experiment in democracy on the other side of the ocean.

But these were also extremely troubling times. Much of Europe had recently emerged from the devastation of thirty years of religious conflict, with many localities destroyed and countless lives lost in the name of Christianity. The United Kingdom had become an invincible power, but there were acrimonious political divisions among the entitled wealthy. The streets of London displayed scenes of wretched poverty, hunger, and disease among the destitute. The Thames River was so polluted with the refuse from the gutters flowing into it, that the gentry carried scented handkerchiefs to allay the stench. Much of Europe had  suffered from repeated epidemics of The Plague by this time. Unfortunately, the 18th century also produced the deadliest disease of them all: the establishment of international slavery.

Charles Jennens was born in 1700, 15 years after Handel, into a British family of great inherited wealth. He was well-educated and devoted to music; he played the violin and amassed a large collection of musical manuscripts. He had an enviable library of literary tomes and an impressive collection of fine art. He never married, fathered no children, had few friends but many enemies, and was given to terrible bouts of anxiety and depression. He also had become one of George Frederick Handel’s favorite librettists.

Jennens was in the throes of one of his depressive “hyps,” as he called them, when he started pulling books from his library shelves and making copious notes from philosophical and religious writings—including both Old and New Testaments. He pulled these notes together in no particular order, but as they took shape, he began to view the results as a possible remedy to counter the awful dread he was feeling during these troubling times. He reasoned that the ancient sages and philosophers had written about the trials of life and how to surmount them. If set to music and performed in public, perhaps they would serve as a solution to the terrible doubts about the meaning of life that were confronting humankind—a  way of “managing catastrophe.” Now he had to persuade Handel to provide the music.

In the 1740s, Handel’s popularity in London was beginning to wane. Yes, his oratorios had been successful. But others hoping to cash in on his success had resorted to flooding the theaters with cheap imitations of the oratorio form, and the public was beginning to lose interest in all of them. He had, in fact, started to set Jennens’s unusual libretto to music, and found it an exciting challenge. Handel’s music magnificently enhanced Jennens’s text and gave it life. They both began calling this new creation,  Messiah.

Messiah is structured nothing like Handel’s other oratorios. Although it relates the story of Jesus, it is not a religious tract, it has no plotline, and no cast of characters. It is a treatise on finding comfort in the midst of despair. When performed, the vocal soloists don’t sit apart at the front of the stage, but appear as members of the chorus, and simply step forward to sing each aria, then return to their places.

By 1742, hoping to generate more enthusiastic audiences, Handel moved to Dublin where he found a warm reception. But Handel’s hopes of introducing his new work to the Irish public in a cathedral were dashed by Jonathan Swift who, as Administrator of St. Patrick’s, and in a characteristic fit of ill-temper, forbade any of his choristers or soloists to perform in any of Handel’s works. So Messiah was first performed in a music hall as a charitable benefit concert. Despite its humble venue, Messiah was a thundering success.

Unfortunately, it didn’t travel well. London’s jaded audiences received it unenthusiastically and stayed away in droves. London audiences were typically characterized by loud chatter during performances. Many of its members were feeling the effects of overindulgence in ale or spirits, and performers were often greeted by jeers, catcalls, and shouts of advice. Decidedly, a challenge for any composer or musician, and not for the faint of heart. 

By 1749, wealthy supporters of a proposed foundling hospital for London’s numerous abandoned children had come up with a clever plan to raise funds by making it “fashionable” to give money for a worthy cause. They asked Handel to perform Messiah at a benefit concert for the new hospital, to be held during the Easter season. The performance was preceded by weeks of publicity and elaborate preparation; the public rushed to buy tickets to this widely-celebrated event.

The performance, which took place in the newly-completed chapel of the hospital, was such a success that it was repeated the next night to accommodate the hordes of ticket holders who had failed to get in for the first one. Thereafter, Messiah was performed annually at the Foundling Hospital for many years to come.

Charles Jennens suffered much distress over the course of Messiah’s creation—initially convinced that Handel had botched the job—he later changed his mind and made peace with the composer. Jennens’s name was prominently displayed on the title page of the manuscript, along with Handel’s, on all performances at the time. In succeeding years, however, it was gradually dropped. Finally, his association with Messiah was completely forgotten.

We’ll never know if Messiah fulfilled Charles Jennens’s expectations by serving as a kind of solace for those in the 18th century who first heard it performed. We do know that this beautiful music has been enjoyed by audiences throughout the centuries, and is still performed annually in many parts of the world. I like to think it would comfort Jennens to know that he may have been right. Today, 300 years from this great work’s conception, we are still tormented by troubling times. Is it possible that we, too, have found Messiah to be a welcome solution for managing catastrophe?

Source: Every Valley, Charles King 

Doubleday, 20242